


Stage Directions

by confusedrambler



Series: The Hungry City [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Hood: Lost Days
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Can be read as a stand alone, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, I feel some Healing in this theater tonight, Jason Todd Does His Best, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Jason-Centric, Latino Jason Todd, Mentions of Prostitution, Mild Hurt/Comfort, POV Jason Todd, POV Tim Drake, Recovery, References to Drugs, Sick Tim Drake, Tim Drake keeps everyone’s secrets, but chapter two lays a lot of groundwork for other works, community theater, the sick Tim Drake part is very short so don't bank on that folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-09-06 19:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20296726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confusedrambler/pseuds/confusedrambler
Summary: In which Jason rebuilds a community, a theater, and himself.





	1. Opening the leaden casket

**Author's Note:**

> This does belong to The Hungry City-verse, but can be read as a stand-alone fic. Full disclosure, I don’t actually know much about community theater. This is just a fun fic for fun. Also, Tim does not appear until chapter two, so don’t go looking for him.

He’s not entirely sure how it happened. One minute, he’s watching auditions and hiding from the Big Bat in one of the few places in the city he’ll never go -- as Bruce Wayne or Batman -- and the next, he’s saving some scrawny kid from getting flattened by a falling light during her monologue. There’s a lot of shouting and swearing and when it all shakes out, he’s surrounded by a bunch of teary-eyed actors and a truly exhausted crew.

“We can not thank you enough, really,” the director is saying. “We have been trying our best to maintain the building, but as you can see...” He sighs and gestures hopelessly at what Jason now sees is a sorry excuse for a theater.

“No shit,” Jason spits. “This place is a death trap. Construction is cheap as hell in this city, and you telling me you can’t even keep the fucking lights in the ceiling?”

The director sags and the crew drifts away, glumly arguing amongst themselves.

“The building is a historical landmark. There are regulations that make upkeep… difficult. And funding has been tight for years. To be frank, it is a miracle we have survived this long” He grimaces. “This may be the end of our program. We can not afford to replace the lights.”

Jason’s mouth twists and he glares at the ceiling.

“That’s... but this place has been around forever. You, uh, you’re the ones that do that program for kids, right? Keeps ‘em out of trouble when they’re out of school.”

“We do what we can to bring art to the community, yes. We are quite limited in what we can provide these days, however. The troupe is entirely made up of volunteers and has been for the past year.”

Jason is silent for a beat before he sighs and claps his hands together decisively.

“Okay, so here’s what’s gonna happen. I happen to have a very specific skill set that will keep this theater running-- for a while. And I  _ also  _ happen to have a vested interest in keeping as many kids as possible off the streets. You keep those programs running, I fix the theater. I work my own schedule, I’ll need a key; no questions, and no thanks necessary.”

The director stutters as Jason claps his shoulder and stomps towards the troupe, already shouting orders. The stage manager drifts back to the director as everyone else scrambles back into action.

“Avraham. Did we just make a deal with the mob?”

“At this point, Josef, I think it is best we not know.”

* * *

There is a disconnect between what he thinks and what he does and in the end it doesn’t matter that his soul has peeled away from his flesh or that he is flushed with fury and other nameless things. It doesn’t matter that he can’t hear the gunshots over the throbbing in his skull because, even through the film of lurid water behind his eyelids, he sees the mess they make and the vicious satisfaction that blooms in his chest feels like the most concrete thing about him. 

He lurches at the lone survivor and slams him, screaming, against the wall. He holds the gun against the man’s chin and presses it up, delighting in the bob of his throat.

“Please, oh G-d, please! I didn’t do anything, I swear. Please, just let me go!”

Jason slugs the man in the jaw with the butt of his gun.

“We all know that’s a lie,” he hisses between clenched teeth. He hits the man again, just because it feels  _ good _ . “You. Have been dealing to children.”

Blood seeps from the corner of his mouth and the hole in his side. His eyes glitter with tears.

“Please, I just do what I’m told! You let me go and I’ll never do it again, I swear! I’ll never work for Black Mask again!”

“I know,” Jason croons. “But that’s not good enough.”

The man sobs and his knees give out. Jason hauls him back upright and crushes the man’s jaw between his fingers.

“Don’t fret sunshine.” His voice drips venom. “I’m not gonna finish the job; I need you to deliver a message. You tell Black Mask and all your other little friends that no one--  _ no one _ fucks with the kids in Crime Alley.  _ They  _ are  _ mine _ .  _ Crime Alley _ is  _ mine _ .”

He lets the gibbering man collapse into a puddle of piss and blood and kicks him over, digging his boot into the man’s chest. He leans all his weight into it, grinding his heel into the man’s sternum.

“And if I catch anyone fucking around-” he pauses, letting the tension build, savoring the wild fear leaking into the air.

“Well, let’s just say that next time, I won’t be so  _ nice _ .”

* * *

One week later, Jason finds Avraham in the prop room. He stands amongst dilapidated cardboard boxes and chipping stage sets and there is a long metallic something in his hand and one instant Jason is in a theater and the next he is in a warehouse and there is a howling in his ears. The nightmare turns and tilts and He is coming towards him and Jason can’t move and his throat convulses and--

“Mr. Peters? Mr. Peters, are you well?”

He slams back into the present, crumpling the envelope in his hands as he tries to pull his heart back inside his chest. Avraham touches his shoulder and Jason explodes, shoving him aside and skittering back several steps to fall into a ready stance, envelope slipping from his hands. Avraham falls. The old man blinks up at him in astonishment. And Jason’s heart has bypassed his chest and dropped straight into his stomach and G-d, why is he  _ like  _ this?

He rushes to Avraham’s side.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean- fuck, are you okay?”

Avraham chuckles and accepts Jason’s help to his feet.

“I am fine, fine. It is not the first time I have been knocked down by a troubled goy and it will not be the last.” Avraham puts a hand to his back and stretches with a groan. Jason can feel the blush spreading all the way to his toes.

“It was a shitty thing to do. It won’t happen again.”

Avraham scoffs and sits on the nearest box, fixing Jason with a gimlet eye.

“Keep far from a lie. Tell me what troubles you and I will consider us even.”

Jason bristles, embarrassment flashing into anger.

“I already said it won’t happen again. I don’t have to tell you  _ shit _ .”

Avraham shrugs.

“No. You do not. But you could.”

Jason… wasn’t expecting that. He breathes heavily, grasping at the anger that slips and slides in his throat and forcing it down until it can be dealt with. It is not the time or the place to run wild. Avraham doesn’t deserve it, not really. And he came here for a  _ reason _ . He snatches up the envelope and thrusts it at the older man.

“Here. Should cover the cost of the light. I’ll be back later this week to do some repairs.”

Jason spins on his heel and stomps towards the door. Avraham calls after him and something in his tone makes Jason stop.

“Wait! The money-- I have to ask. Is it...?”

Jason looks over his shoulder and lets a sharp edged grin cut across his face.

“Is it what? Is it  _ dirty _ ? You gonna turn it down if it is?”

Avraham glares at him, mouth thinning. Jason’s grin sours into a sneer.

“It’s clean as anything in this city. If you don’t want it, give it back and I’ll be on my fucking way.”

Avraham’s mouth purses, but he tucks the money into his coat pocket.

“I had to ask. You are not like our usual patrons.”

“Yeah, well. I’m what you’ve got.”

Avraham hums in agreement, discontent deepening the creases at the corners of his eyes.

“So you are. And what did you say you do?”

Jason laughs and it is a harsh, angry thing.

“I didn’t.”

* * *

“Señor Peters!”

Jason looks up from the door he’s sanding down and grins at Tiffani as she bounds towards the stage.

“What’s up short stuff? Thought rehearsal was over a while ago.”

“It was. Avraham caught me afterwards and you’re looking at the new Mrs. Linda Loman! He said that Maisie called and she’s got mono, so I’ll be taking her place for the entire run.”

“Yeah? Congratulations, Tiff. I know you been working hard on it. Opening night’s in, what, three more weeks?”

“Yeah, it’s so close! There’s so much to do..” Tiffani chews on her bottom lip and goes quiet, the only sounds in the theater the rasping scrape of sandpaper and distant goodbyes as the other actors file out of the theater.

Jason lets her gather her thoughts, going back to sanding down the door. The petite woman had latched on to him as a sort of good luck charm after he’d saved her from getting pancaked by that falling light a month back. He hasn’t had the heart to drive her off, and if he’s being honest, he’s come to enjoy their chats. It’s nice,  _ grounding  _ even, to talk with someone normal after all his time with the League. Someone who isn’t afraid he’ll murder them for saying the wrong thing. And she makes him feel… older, is the best word for it, he thinks. She’s only a year younger than he is, but the way she looks at him makes him feel grown-up in a way he hasn’t quite learned how to be on his own. It doesn’t help that she insists on calling him ‘Señor Peters’ instead of ‘Todd’ like literally everyone else now. 

A lot has changed since they met. He finds himself spending more time at the theater than he’d thought possible. Every time he fixes one problem, another springs into existence. He’s practically rebuilt the entire theater by now-- and  _ yes  _ all the repairs meet Gotham’s standards for historical buildings  _ Avraham _ . But after a month of leaks, busted floor boards, and flickering lights, things are finally looking up. It’s been a full week since the last maintenance catastrophe. Technically, they only need him for the money now. Still, he finds himself drifting back.

There’s something addictive about the place. It’s easier to ignore the whispers in the back of his head that he has a job to do, the crooning voice that demands vengeance and carnage and and  _ and _ . But he’s always been good with his hands and there is destruction here, just enough to take the bite from the compulsion. And after the breaking down, there is renewal too. 

He feels like he can breathe again. Like the pit’s haze thins a little more with every hour he spends here, taking things apart and piecing them back together better than they were before. There’s been more than one night that he’s found himself sneaking into the theater after knocking heads. Just him and an empty building that sings with potential. It’s… nice.

And when Avraham had mentioned that their old stage manager had quit- afraid of the mob, he’d said, which is  _ ridiculous _ . Jason would know if Falcone or Maroni was muscling in on his turf,  _ thanks.  _ But opening night is coming up and the props are only half-done and, well. It’d be a damn shame if the theater closed after all the work he’s put into the place. He’s remaking Crime Alley into his image, after all. So here he is, using his old shop skills to knock together a few sets and chatting up actresses in his off time.

He gives the door a final rub down, patting the smoothed wood grain with satisfaction and straightening with a sigh. Tiffani still hasn’t said a word, her dark eyes unfocused and her nose wrinkled. He props his arm on top of her head and leans down to catch her eye.

“Careful, Tiff. Keep staring off in space like that and something might stare back.”

She blinks back into awareness and shoves his arm off of her head.

“Don’t say that, Señor Peters. I was just… thinking.”

“About?”

“Well, it’s just—This is my first big part in a play, my first speaking part. And I don’t want to mess it up. I try really hard, but you don’t think—do you think my accent is too strong? I’ve been practicing hiding it, but-”

Jason cuts her off with a laugh.

“Tu acento está bien. Nadie se dará cuenta, princesa.”

She jolts in surprise and looks up at him accusingly.

“¿Tu hablas español? ¡Desde cuando!”

“Desde siempre. Mi madre era dominicana,” he grins. “Pero soy alérgico al sol, así que no lo veo.”

“¡Ah, mi padre es dominicano!” She hesitates a moment, then adds in a rush. “Mi madre es de haití.”

“That’s an… unusual combination.”

“Sí.” Her mouth thins into a mulish line. “Problem?”

“Course not.” He tugs one of her curls with a smirk. “I just didn’t realize I was talking to Romeo and Juliet’s daughter. Yo tenía razón. Eres una princesa.”

She wrinkles her nose and bats his hand away.

“If I’m a princess, what does that make you?”

“Gutter trash. And proud of it.”

“¡Ni hablar! You’re a knight, for sure.”

Jason throws his head back with a laugh.

“Uh, uh. Gotham’s already got a Knight and I ain’t him.” Eyes twinkling, he gestures at the stage around him. “But maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. Now I think about it, I’m sure you mean Don Quixote.” His smile falters. “I… can’t disagree with that one.”

Tiffani taps his side with a fist.

“Stop being ridiculous. Eres un caballero. A  _ good _ one. I say so, and I’m the princess.” She checks her cell phone, face falling at the time. “Maldito. I missed the bus.”

Jason shrugs and starts for the door, grabbing his jacket.

“So I give you a ride home, no problemo. It’s time for me to go anyhow.”

Tiffani hesitates on the stage.

“I… you don’t have to do that. It’s not that far; I can walk.”

“Alone through Crime Alley? Chica, you know better than that. Besides, us Dominicans gotta stick together.”

She relents and follows him out of the theater, jogging down the aisle to catch up with him.

“Fine. But you have to stay for dinner. I made plantains this morning, or I have some leftover rice? And beans, there’s  _ always _ beans.”

It’s his turn to hesitate. He has business tonight with a small-time gang that, word has it, has been running a protection racket without bothering to give him a cut. He can’t let that slide if he wants the other bosses to take him seriously. But… how long has it been since he’s had some decent plantains? G-d, probably since before his mom got sick. He can almost taste them. He shrugs and pushes the door open. Gotham can wait one more night.

“Whatever you say, princesa.”

“Que generoso. Then you can help me with my lines while we eat. I want to be perfect at rehearsal on Friday.”

“Sure, sure. I’ll take you home and eat your food  _ and _ practice your lines with you. On one condition.” He holds up a finger, mockingly stern. “No more of this ‘Señor Peters’ bullshit. You call me Todd, comprende?

“I think I can live with that.”

* * *

It’s just after midnight when Jason locks up the theater and heads down the street, pulling the hood of his jacket up to combat the unseasonably cool breeze. He’s planning out his route for the night’s patrol when he hears a yelp and raised voices up ahead. He hesitates, but the shouting gets louder and shouting rarely means anything good in Gotham. 

Jason ducks into an alley and digs the spare domino mask out of his bag, pressing it tightly to his face. He stashes the bag behind a dumpster and slips back into the street, drawing the loaded .45 he keeps strapped to his hip-- not his modified M1911, but good enough for this. 

“You stupid bitch! I buy you clothes, I feed you, I do  _ everything  _ for you! If you ain’t gonna earn your fucking keep, I’ll toss your ass out on the streets! That what you want? I said look at me when I’m talking to you!”

Jason slows and presses himself against old brick, leaning just far enough around the corner to see a sleazy man with a paunch shaking a sobbing blonde. She is taller than he is, but even his wrists are thicker than her arm and sweat beads on her forehead despite the chill night air. A few feet beyond them, a small knot of women in heels and short skirts looks on. They hunch together with pinched, sullen faces and Jason has seen this before. 

His skin prickles and whispers curl through his ears, tantalizing. He grinds his teeth and strides over to the pair. He doesn’t bother to be quiet about it, but the man has no idea he’s there until he grabs the bastard by the shirt and yanks. As soon as the man’s grip breaks,the blonde whimpers and staggers over to the other girls. Jason flips the man off his feet and flat onto his back, shrugging of a stray elbow that clips his jaw. From the corner of his eye, he is surprised to see that the women haven’t taken the opportunity to run. Instead, their eyes flick between the men and they crowd tighter together than before. Not, he reflects, a particularly good sign. Jason flips the safety off and points his gun squarely at the man’s chest.

“Hi there. Heard you having a disagreement with that nice lady over there and decided, what the hell-- it’s a slow night. Why not catch up with the neighbors?”

The other man gasps for air and props himself up on an elbow, glaring at Jason.

“The fuck you think you doing, punk? You got no right! These are  _ my  _ girls, so you better step off!”

“ _ Your _ girls, huh?” Jason looks the women up and down and tuts. “Don’t look like you been taking very good care of ‘em, hombre.” He catches the eye of one of the women and smiles. “Hey, you wanna tell me what shit for brains here was goin’ on about ‘fore I came along?”

“‘S none of your business! I can do whatever the fuck I want with ‘em, they’re my property and--” Jason’s vision flashes green at the edges and he squeezes a round into the scumbag’s knee cap. The man screams and curls into a ball, cradling his leg as best he can without moving it. “My leg, my fucking leg!”

“Oh, I’m  _ sorry _ .” Jason says sweetly. “I thought I was talking to the lady, not to  _ you _ .” He catches the woman’s eye again. “ _ So _ sorry about that, miss. He won’t interrupt again. Go ahead, tell me what he’s been up to.”

“I think you already know.” The words are icy and the woman stone faced. She hasn’t even flinched since Jason got here. Jason tilts his head contemplatively and shrugs.

“Yeah. I do.” He turns back to swearing man on the ground and grips him by the collar, giving him a little shake to get his attention. “Hey, fucko. You see those nice women over there? They pay _your _bills, not the other way around. So here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna start treating these ladies with some goddamn _respect-- _I’m talkin’ actual pay, food, medicine, breaks, please and thank you, the motherfuckin’ _works_\-- or I’m gonna come back and finish what I started, comprende?”

The man spits in his face, tears streaming from his eyes.

“ _ Fuck _ you. Who do you think you are, uh? You ain’t gonna get away with this!”

Jason shudders, the sensation of ants beneath his skin getting stronger as the spit dribbles down his face. He throws the man back onto the concrete and wipes the spittle away with a sneer. His hands shake and his pulse pounds.

“I,” He enunciates carefully. “Am the fucking Red Hood. So yeah, I think I  _ will  _ get away with it.”

The man’s face tinges green and Jason drinks it in. It’s always a pleasure to know that his reputation precedes him.

“Y-you ain’t the fuckin’ Hood! Hood don’t give a shit about whores, he only cares about candy.”

“Amazing,” Jason drawls. “Literally every word you just said was wrong.”

“Are you gonna kill him?” It’s the stony woman again. Jason rocks back on his heels. Usually people don’t actually  _ ask _ .

“Should I?”

She stares him down, unflinching. Now that he looks at her head-on, he can see the bruises that trail across her face and neck, some hidden by her dark hair, some by caked makeup. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips.

“I heard,” she says, slowly. “That the Red Hood kills people that break the rules.”

“That’s true,” he acknowledges, easily ignoring the other man’s groans-- now edged with more dread than anger.

“I heard,” she pauses and flicks her eyes to a little red-head hiding in the center of the group and back to him. “I heard that he doesn’t let anyone fuck with kids.”

The susurration in his skull crescendos to a deafening screech, and his vision streaks. His hands are the steadiest they’ve been all night.

“Yeah.” He hears himself saying. “Yeah, that’s true, too. Hey, kid. Do me a favor and turn around.” 

He waits just long enough for the hard-edged brunette to press the girl’s face against her skirt and empties the whole clip into the man wailing at his feet. 

“You should get out of here. He won’t bother you anymore.”

“That’s true.” The brunette replies.

No one moves until the man stops breathing.

He reloads his weapon with deft movements and slides the gun back into his holster. The women still haven’t moved.

“Seriously, you should get out of here.” His head is beginning to ache. “Cops’ll show up soon.”

“But what happens now? What about us?”

“I dunno,” Jason snaps. “Find a new way to make a living, I guess. Or get a new boss, a better one. Either way, I want that fucking kid off the streets!”

“How?” the brunette snarls. “It’s Crime Alley. None of us would be here if shit was that easy. Girls like us can’t pay to get an interview much less a fucking job. And the next pimp is gonna be just as bad as him!” The other girls murmur in agreement, shifting uneasily behind their leader.

Jason cradles his head in his hands and screams in frustration.

“I know that! Don’t you think I fucking know that!”

“Then what do you want us to do?”

“Why don’t you just-- just be your own boss, dammit!” He can’t think past the pounding in his ears and he just wants to go home and sleep. Coming down after a kill is the Worst when there’s not another task to keep him going.

The brunette’s lip curls.

“Some crime lord you are. Don’t even know what the fuck you’re doing, do you? We wouldn’t last a week without a pimp for protection.”

“Then tell them I’m your pimp!” He glares at the women and stabs a finger in their direction. “You’re under the Red Hood’s protection and anyone who fucks with you fucks with me. Same deal the kids get. And, and you give me a cut of your business. Like, 10%. The rest is yours. That good enough for you?” 

The brunette blinks, truly unbalanced for the first time all night. She falters, falling back to whisper with the other women. Jason wishes that they’d hurry up so he can leave. The cops will be here any minute and his head is going to split wide open before he gets home.

“How would we get in contact with you? If we needed you.” This time, it’s the blonde. She’s still pale and shaking, but he can tell now that it’s from a fever, not fear.

“I have a contact at the community theater,” he grits out. “You ever need me, go there. Ask for Todd Peters. He’ll pass on the message. Deal?”

Rapid fire whispering and the brunette steps forward again. She grins and Jason recognizes the razor wire behind her smile.

“Deal.”

* * *

“Tiffani thinks he’s some kind of bouncer.”

“No way that’s true, I don’t care how close they are. Bouncers don’t get banged up in the middle of the week. And they sure as shit don’t have working girls comin’ in for ‘em all the time.  _ I _ bet he’s a heavy for one of the Rogues. ‘S probably Penguin; pendejo’s got people  _ everywhere _ .”

“Nah, nah. You stupid? He works for the mob. Josef and Avraham got in a huge fight about it, ‘s why he left.”

Jason clicks his tongue in mock disappointment, finally drawing the trio’s attention to the doorway. 

“And here I thought you were sneakin’ off for a smoke.”

“Todd! We -- uh, shit. It’s just talk, we ain’t mean anything by it.” Marcus chews on his lip as Alex hides behind him, peeking out with wide eyes. David nods in agreement, cheeks flushing though he tries to look unbothered.

Jason shrugs and steps fully into the alley, letting the door shut behind him. He pulls out a cigarette and lights up, taking a drag and letting them stew before he says anything else.

“Don’t bother me. But you’re wrong. I don’t work for Falcone or Penguin or any one of those fuckers. I ain’t gettin’ locked up for  _ them _ .”

“Well you ain’t a bouncer,” David counters.

“Nope.” He pops the last syllable and leans against the brick wall with a raised eyebrow. “You really wanna know?” 

“Devil you know’s better’n the one you don’t.” Marcus chimes in. 

“Alright. Here’s the truth: I’m an assassin. Somebody gets on my bad side, I kill ‘em.” He makes a gun of his fingers and mimes shooting Marcus in the head. “And if they really piss me off...” He drags a finger across his throat, completely deadpan. “I cut off their fucking head.”

The trio looks at him with wide eyes and open mouths before David breaks into nervous laughter.

“You’re fucking with us.”

Jason shifts into a grin.

“What gave it away?”

Alex slips out from behind Marcus and smacks Jason’s arm hard enough to sting.

“Asshole! Don’t  _ do _ that, you scared the shit out of me.”

Jason laughs and pushes them away.

“Alright, alright. But seriously, don’t worry about me. I ain’t exactly got a  _ job _ , but I do okay. And ain’t nothing I do gonna come back on you.” He tosses the remains of his cigarette on the ground and grinds it out with his heel. “Now get your asses back inside. We got 15 minutes to finish setting up before the rest of the troupe gets here. If dress rehearsal runs late cuz of you chuckleheads I’ll never hear the end of it.”

They file back in and between the four of them manage to get the last set piece in place just as the last actor stumbles out in costume. The rest of the evening is a rush of lights and sound cues and scene changes and by the final curtain the entire theater thrums with energy. 

The other stage hands jump straight into a reset while the actors head backstage to change out of their costumes. Jason takes advantage of the lull to slip off the stage and go over last minute details with Avraham. It feels like he’s only been talking to the older man for a few minutes when Marcus taps him on the shoulder.

“Ey boss, stage’s reset. We good to go?”

Jason glances over the stage, surprised to find that everything is already done. He’s been talking with Avraham longer than he thought.

“Yeah, you’re good. Get here same time tomorrow. I want to go over some of the timing shit before the show.”

“Can do.” Marcus hesitates before shrugging and gesturing over his shoulder. “We’re grabbing dinner at that diner down the street. They got good waffles. You in?”

Jason blinks in surprise. He hasn’t had time to eat anything since breakfast and he  _ is  _ hungry. But it’s already getting late. He can grab a protein bar and roll straight into patrol, grab something more substantial after.

“I… nah, that’s okay. You go ahead. I’ve got shit to do.”

Jason’s stomach grumbles loudly and Avraham chuckles.

“Perhaps you should rethink your answer. Take a night off, Todd. Eat something more than those damned protein bars you are so fond of.”

Jason rolls his eyes.

“G-d, you sound just like my grandpa. I’ll go.” He jabs a finger at Avraham. “But  _ you  _ can fuck right off with telling me what to do. I’m going because waffles sound fucking delicious and that’s  _ it _ , got it old man?”

Avraham smiles, his eyes twinkling.

“Of course, Todd.”

* * *

“Question for you.”

Jason slides Avraham a bottled water and collapses in the seat across from him. Jason drapes himself over the table, sighing as he presses his forehead into the cool plastic. It has been a very long week. Between the weekly performances and running his growing operations, he hardly has time to eat much less sleep.

“I may have an answer.”

Jason tilts his head, eyes tracking up to watch the other man’s expression.

“Putting on a show is a helluva lot of work.”

“Yes.”

“And I can’t help noticing that we don’t exactly have a lot of business coming in. Our ticket sales are abysmal and even the funds I’ve brought to the table aren’t enough to dig us out of this hole. The cast and crew have been running themselves ragged to make this work. They’re exhausted. Dammit, I’ve only been stage manager for two productions and I’m so fucking tired I can hardly think straight. And nothing we do seems to make a damn bit of difference.”

Avraham hums, making a careful note in the margins of his paper.

“Avraham, how much longer are we gonna do this?”

“Well, we do have three more shows this season.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it, old man.” Jason rolls his eyes and pushes himself up to slouch in his chair. “I meant…” He pauses and licks his lips. He doesn’t know what he meant. 

It’s been bothering him for a while now. The voices have been getting louder, harder to work past. Or maybe he’s just too run-down to ignore them anymore. But they’re right. He came to Gotham for justice. For revenge. This...thing with the theater is too distracting. In another week, maybe two, it will be time to make his final move as Red Hood. He can’t afford distractions now. Not if he wants everything he’s worked for to mean something.

“I can’t do it, Avraham.” Jason admits, quietly. “I have other business to tend to. Other obligations. Debts that need paying.”

Avraham sets his pen down and folds his hands neatly in front of him. Jason can feel the weight of his dark eyes, weighing him and finding him wanting. His skin crawls.

“This is my last week with the theater. I’ll still send money your way, as much as I can for as long as I can. The building is in good repair. You’ll be able to finish the season, at least. But you need to think about what happens next.”

“Todd,” Avraham says gently. “Even if you can not remain as part of the crew, this does not have to be goodbye.”

“Yes. It does.” Jason stands abruptly. “I’ve stayed too long already. You don’t need to get tangled up in my shit. It’s best this way, for everyone.” He’s halfway to the door when Avraham’s voice cuts through the air.

“Are you so willing to throw all of this away? I do not pretend to know what you are involved in, Todd, but I know it is not worthy of you. You are impetuous and crude, it is true. But you are not a bad man and I do not take you for a fool. This… business you speak of. If it will end badly for us, it can not end any better for you.”

His mouth tastes of acid and his hands tremble.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about. Leave it.” He grits out.

“And why should I? You think you are the first boy I have known with that look? I am an old Jew. I have lived and worked in this place longer than I care to admit. I have lived to see the rise and fall of this theater and of many who walked its halls. I have done my share of foolish things.” He chuckled wryly. “Some of them were even legal. But this is Gotham. The city will chew you up and spit you out; the city or her Bat.”

Braying laughter erupts from his chest.

“Oh, I doubt that very much, old man.”

Avraham stands and crosses the room to put a hand on Jason’s shoulder. He turns the younger man to face him and meets his eyes with an unwavering stare.

“You are hurt. You are desperate. And you are angry. So angry you feel you could burst with the need to do something about it. I know you, Todd Peters. I know everything that matters.” He releases his hold and returns to his table. “This is not the last time we will see each other, Todd. In a month, a year, perhaps longer. But you will be back, and I will still be here. Of that I am certain.”

Jason flings open the door and storms out of the building.

He doesn’t look back.

* * *

It’s been three weeks since he left the theater and G-d help him, he doesn’t know where else to go. He forces his way into the side entrance and staggers backstage. He rifles through makeup kits and costume materials until he finds gauze and tape, swaying like a drunk. His vision greys at the edges and the hand that isn’t clamped against his throat is leaden. He can hardly hold the supplies and the numb horror that has been creeping up from the base of his spine threatens to overwhelm him.

He manages to press gauze against his neck and tape it down tightly. The gauze soaks up the still seeping blood, and he knows that he should have made sure the gauze was sterile, should have cleaned the wound, should have done so many things, but he is bursting at the seams and he is not enough to contain himself. He catches a glimpse of the mirror-- he is gaunt and burning, skin stretched and bruised and bleeding in a dozen different places. He does not know the mad man in the mirror. 

He slams his fist against the glass again and again and again and when it is as cracked and broken a thing as he, he flings it across the room. He collapses against a dressing table and curls in on himself, taking makeup and trinkets with him as he sinks to the floor. His fingers clutch at his hair. Jason Todd implodes.

* * *

It has been four days since his disastrous reunion with Bruce and his return to the theater. Two since Avraham found him, still wallowing in broken glass. Today Avraham will convince him to eat the soup his husband sent.

Tomorrow he will go back to building props. It will be another three days before he convinces himself that leaving the theater will not result in his instant incarceration. A week after that, Tiffani will persuade him to sleep in her living room instead of the theater’s attic. It will be a month before he reconnects with Koriand’r and Roy. Two before he moves back into his own apartment and starts patrolling again. And it will be longer than that before he breathes a word of what happened to anyone.

* * *

“Hey, Todd!”

Jason pulls his headphones off without looking up from his copy of the script. He’s halfway through the monologue and his favorite line is coming up.

“Yeah? Kinda in the middle of something, Alex.”

“There’s a kid here to see you. Says Daisy sent her.”

Jason drops the script and swivels to look. Sure enough, there’s a teenager sulking in the doorway behind Alex. He’s never seen her before- Daisy doesn’t usually send kids to liaison with him. 

“Thanks for showing her in. I’ll take it from here.”

Alex nods and leaves the room with a wave. The teen hovers by the door, shoulders tense. Jason beckons her closer with a smile.

“Come on in; I don’t bite. What’s your name?”

“Li.” Her voice is quiet, lower than he expected. Jason blinks in surprise, eyes automatically retracing the lines of her body before mentally shrugging and filing the information away.

“Hi Li. Do you have a message for me?”

She shifts her weight and grips the straps of her backpack, still not moving any closer.

“Daisy sent me. She said you could help. Or that you would know someone who can.”

Jason folds his hands together and sits back in his chair, putting on his very best non-threatening look.

“I might be able to work something out. What’s the problem?”

She licks her lips and dips her head down far enough that her hair, short as it is, falls into her face. She mumbles something, but the words are inaudible.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

“I need a job.”

Jason stares at her. He opens his mouth, closes it, and stares some more. Several minutes pass before his brain comes back online.

“Daisy sent you here. For a job. How old  _ are _ you, Li?”

“Sixteen.”

Jason raises an eyebrow, distinctly unimpressed.

“Don’t lie to me, kid.”

She flushes and shrinks in on herself further.

“Fourteen. I’m fourteen.”

Jason leans forward in his chair and drags a hand back through his hair.

“Ok. You’re fourteen and you need a job. So you went to Daisy and Daisy sent you here because kids ain’t allowed to work the streets anymore.” Shit, he really didn’t think that rule through, did he. “Parents?”

“They kicked me out,” she whispers. Jason absentmindedly tugs on one of his curls.

“If they kicked you out, you can go to the police. Foster homes ain’t great, but they’re better than they used to be. Been a lot of crackdowns in the last decade.”

“I don’t have papers.” And she’s definitely holding back tears now. Jason grimaces, but doesn’t approach. As skittish as she is, he doesn’t want to make things worse.

“Ok. That’s ok, Li. If I could get you papers, though. If I could do that, would you consider going to the police then?”

“It won’t work,” she sniffles, scrubbing at her eyes. “They’ll find my parents. They don’t have papers either; it won’t work.”

“Hey,” he croons. “It’s gonna be alright, I promise. I’m gonna come over there and hug you, that ok?” He waits for her nod before crossing the room and folding her into his arms. “Listen, this ain’t my first rodeo. I can get you papers so good they’ll never even know your parents are still alive, yeah? And I’ll make sure you get placed with somebody good. I can make all that happen. You just say the word.”

She pushes away from him and wipes her nose on her sleeve, almond eyes puffy.

“I don’t have anything I can give you. Why would you do this? You don’t even know me.”

“Because you’re just a kid. You didn’t ask for any of this shit to happen. And you should be in school, not out on the streets. Trust me, I lived rough for a while and it sucks  _ ass _ .

“So whaddaya say, Li? Think you can trust me?”

He offers her a hand and she takes it with a watery smile. 

He hasn’t felt this warm in months.

* * *

The last show of the season ended an hour ago. Jason isn’t sure how they’re all still standing, but they are. He helps the crew pack away props and set pieces as the cast members disrobe and pile their costumes into the back of Avraham’s car, promising to be back in the spring. They’ve just finished the job and locked the building down for the winter when Marcus grabs his attention, the rest of the crew gathering behind him with wide grins.

“Todd! We’re all going out tonight. Drinks, dancing—the works. You comin’?”

“Nah, you guys go ahead. I’ve got shit to do.”

The crew protests loudly, Marcus loudest of all.

“Come on, man! You never go out with us—we’re ‘bout to get lit, you gotta come! The whole troupe’s gonna be there.”

Jason raised an eyebrow.

“How’d you talk Avraham into going?”

Marcus hesitates and Avraham breaks in with a belly laugh.

“I was not invited.”

“Ey, that’s not fair! You’re like, 60, and your husband worries. I ain’t tryina get on Simon’s shit list.”

Avraham pats Marcus’s wrist consolingly.

“I am not offended, my boy. I know you are simply afraid that I will draw all the boys and there will be none left for you.”

The troupe bursts into laughter and Jason finds himself joining in. Marcus blushes furiously and Avraham quiets everyone with a wave of his hand.

“Go and have your fun without me. Myself, I am getting out of this cold.” There is a chorus of goodbyes as Avraham climbs into his car. Before he leaves, he rolls down the window and pokes his head out. “Mazel tov on another successful season and I will see you all next year. And Todd!” 

“Yeah?”

“Stay out of trouble on your vacation!”

Jason flips him off with mock disgust and Avraham waves back cheerfully as he drives away. The rest of the troupe waves back and once Avraham’s junker is out of sight, they turn to Jason expectantly.

“What?”

“Well? Are you coming or not?” Alex props a bangled hand on their hip, tapping their fingers in time to the music drifting from a club down the street.

“Nah, you heard Avraham. I’m going on a trip. Leaving tonight, actually.”

Tiff wriggles through the troupe to his side and drapes herself around his waist with a pout.

“He’s going to Europe. Estoy tan celoso! I’ve never even been out of the state.”

Jason rolls his eyes and slings an arm around her shoulders.

“I told you, princesa, it’s a business trip. You’d hate it, honest.”

David perks up with interest at that.

“Yeah? What kinda business?”

“Nothing that’s gonna win you that bet muchacho. Just got a friend who’s in a little over his head. Gonna go pull his ass out of the fire and see what we can salvage from his business, that’s all.”

David clicks his tongue in disappointment.

“That’s fair. Good luck on your trip, though.”

The others echo his sentiment and after another round of goodbyes, they set off for the club. Once everyone is gone, Jason grabs the bag he’d hidden by the fire escape and pulls out his cell phone. It only rings for a moment before Kori picks up.

“Ready when you are.”

“Excellent. I will arrive shortly. I had some trouble getting past the Batman’s sensors, but I believe the problem is solved.”

“Excellent,” he echoes with a grin. “Let’s go rescue our favorite dumbass.”

* * *

Between the two of them, it doesn’t take long to bust Roy out of prison and put his mess to rights. They spend the rest of the winter zipping around the planet beating the shit out of their old business partners and stealing all their assets and Jason is  _ living _ . And when they get tired of being big damn heroes, they retire to Kori’s island and languish on the beach until Jason’s skin is golden brown and covered in freckles. It feels a lot like paradise. But even that has to come to an end. March rolls around, Jason gets dropped back in Gotham, and the Outlaws disband. For now.

A few weeks later he stands in front of the theater with a duffel bag on his shoulder and a spring in his step. Today’s the day. The troupe is meeting at the theater for the first time this year and Jason has been  _ busy  _ since he landed back in Gotham. He flicks his head to the side to get his bangs out of his face and slides on his sunglasses with a grin. Avraham’s gonna love what he’s done with the place. 

* * *

His days take on a rhythm that he’s missed and Jason finds himself elbow deep in wood shavings and spattered with paint more often than not. His days take on a rhythm-- the waking and the making and the tearing apart, to replace the old with the new.

His nights are much the same. He spends them elbow deep in grime and spattered with blood more often than not. His nights are much the same-- the searching and the finding and the tearing apart, though he knows the old will only be replaced with the new. 

It is finding balance in a hungry city that takes more than it gives.


	2. Exit, pursued by Bat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tim solves puzzles, keeps secrets, and finds a brother.

Tim twirls his favorite pen between the fingers of his left hand as he flips through yet another financial report. It’s been two weeks since Bruce went missing and he hasn’t stopped moving since he got the news. 

It’s validating to know that having a plan for this wasn’t just the paranoia, after all.

Cass is still in Hong Kong; she’s still reeling from Stephanie’s death earlier this year and TIm’s not sure if she’ll come home at all. Dick is preoccupied with the search and with Damian, which Tim considers a bullet  _ dodged _ . Damian is still something of a mystery and Tim  _ hates  _ wild cards. Barbara is juggling her Birds of Prey and the search and coordinating the League and frankly, Tim wonders when she has time to sleep. 

Then there’s Jason. He’s never exactly broadcasted his presence to the city at large, but he’s been... quieter than Tim expected. There haven’t been any fatalities that Tim can link him to in the past eight months, but he’s not sure how long that’s going to last. Especially since he doesn’t know if anyone even told Jason that Bruce is missing. Tim definitely isn’t going to break the news to him, so  _ quiet  _ is the best he can hope for. 

And Tim-- Tim is emancipated now. His position at WE has transitioned, quite neatly, from ‘intern’ to ‘acting CEO.’ He has an apartment ready for move in, if it comes to that, and a plan. Just in case things don’t pan out. And he has this feeling, this bone-deep gut-churning feeling that they won’t.

But he has a plan. It starts with making sure that everything at WE is squared away and ends with finding Bruce before someone decides he’s dead. He gives it a month before they start tossing the word around and he hopes to G-d he’ll find him before then because-- Because he isn’t dead. It is, simply, an impossibility. So he’s combing through reports and page after page of mind numbing research and most of it is just fine-- Lucius is  _ very  _ good at his job after all-- but there’s something in the reports from the Wayne Foundation that niggles at him. 

The expense reports are higher than they were last year. Which, wouldn’t be unusual in literally any other department, but the budget for the Wayne Foundation hasn’t changed at all in the past fifteen years. He traces the problem back to a report from the Martha Wayne Foundation. And there, plain as day, is a grant that Tim has never heard of. And Tim makes it his business to know things.

He digs deeper and it isn’t long before he finds that the grant is completely bogus. It states that the money was awarded to a theater in North Gotham to help restore and maintain the building as a historical landmark. But there  _ isn’t  _ a theater in that part of town, much less a historical landmark. Not since the Globe closed down after the Wayne murders. He does a quick internet search and, as he suspected, the only mention he can find of the “North Gotham Community Theater” is on a completely obsolete site from the late 90s. And he still can’t find any mention of it being labelled a historical landmark. So who got the grant and why?

He taps his fingers against the desk and calls Tam into his office. She strides in a few minutes later, handing him another stack of paperwork and flipping through her PDA one handed.

“This is it for the ‘01 reports. I put the minutes for yesterday’s board meeting on top, make sure you look them over. I’ll need them back, signed, before the end of the day.” She stops tapping at her phone and finally looks at him. “You said you had a question.”

“Yeah,” Tim grabs the minutes and signs his name to the bottom as he scans through the bullet points. “Have you ever heard of the North Gotham Community Theater?”

“Yes, actually. Why?”

Tim frowns and hands the minutes back to her.

“They received a grant last year from the Martha Wayne Foundation. I didn’t think there  _ was  _ a theater in North Gotham; not since the Globe closed.”

Tam hums and leans against his desk.

“That’s interesting. I didn’t think they bothered applying anymore. North Gotham Community  _ is  _ the Globe. Someone bought the place about a decade back and rebranded it.” Tam shrugged and pushed herself off the desk. “They did okay the first year or two, but it never really got off the ground. Last I heard, the building was getting pretty gross and they were having a helluva time getting enough funding to stay open. Might be how they finally got a grant through. The guys over community restoration aren’t as picky as the arts department.”

“Maybe.” Tim leans back in his chair and absentmindedly shoves himself into a slow spin. “I think I’m going to look into this one a little more. It just seems weird that they got a grant out of nowhere.”

“Suit yourself.” Tam consults her PDA. “Best way to see how they’ve used the money would be to get inside. The only way you’ll be doing that is if you see a show. I’ll get you the number to their box office.” She leaves the room as briskly as she entered and Tim stares up at the ceiling.

In this case, Tam is absolutely right. The theater is deep in Red Hood’s territory and it’ll be much safer to case the place as a civilian. He’ll call and get a ticket to the next available showing of… whatever they’re doing. Shakespeare, probably.

Satisfied, he flags the report with a sticky note and sets it aside. He’s got a lot more paper to get through if he’s going to be on time for patrol tonight. The city’s already missing Batman. It’s up to Robin to pick up the slack, as usual.

* * *

Tim transfers the files from the buttonhole camera onto his computer in record time. As the last handful of pictures downloads, he opens up all the pictures he found of the old Globe theater for comparison and sips at his coffee. He didn’t notice anything strange while he was at the performance-- a decent rendition of  _ Arsenic and Old Lace _ , though he prefers the movie. He  _ always  _ prefers the movie-- So he’s hoping that the comparison might highlight something he missed in real time. He already feels like he’s wasted the entire night, but he’s blocked out this time to investigate the theater and that’s what he’s going to do. 

He flips through both sets of photos steadily, making a note of the differences between the Globe and the NGCT. The outside hasn’t changed much-- rounded walls still stretch up three stories, though cracks now spider across the brick facade. And the pair of gargoyles, each statue clutching at the obligatory theater mask, still hang over the main entrance. But there’s a fire escape around the back of the building now, and the old doors have been swapped out for sturdier metal versions that lock from the inside. He does some mental math and frowns, grabbing a notebook to start a running tally of estimates.

In the reception area, he notes the addition of a plexiglass window around the ticket office and a coat of paint-- a warm cream instead of the gilded wallpaper in the earliest photos. The burgundy carpet hasn’t changed, though smaller rugs have been put down in the highest trafficked areas.

He skips ahead to the photos of the auditorium and stops with a low whistle. Whoever was put in charge of renovations went all out in the auditorium. The seats have all been reupholstered-- bright red corduroy replaced by maroon vinyl-- and the balconies have been repaired-- the delicate scrollwork retouched and the surrounding beams sanded down and stained to match the rich gleaming brown in the earliest pictures of the theater. And to top it all off, they’ve extended the stage by a good  8  feet, right over what used to be the orchestra pit.

Tim crumples up his tally in disgust. He can’t even begin to guess what the renovations in the auditorium would have cost, but there’s no way that the grant from WE would have covered everything. It must have taken tens of thousands of dollars to make those repairs, and from what he can tell, there’s still a lot of work that needs to be done. Tim rakes a hand through his hair and glares at his empty mug. It doesn’t make any sense. 

The need for repairs was-- is-- obviously legitimate. And the theater is a real, working business. Even with the theater’s connection to the Wayne murders, Tim can’t see any reason they would be rejected for a grant all these years later. So  _ why  _ would someone go through all the trouble of breaking into WE’s systems to create a bogus grant for a pittance of what they needed when they could have applied for a  _ real  _ grant for much more? 

Tim pushes away from his computer and pours himself another cup of coffee. There is, he reminds himself, a massive amount of red tape to deal with when applying for a grant. Inspections, background checks, secondary evaluations-- the amount of attention given to applicants can be daunting. So maybe they fake the grant because they’ve got something to hide. Something going on behind the scenes that he didn’t notice, but would have been uncovered by a full-scale investigation. Or it was a test to see if the company would catch a fake grant and someone, somewhere is planning to make off with a lot more than ten grand. Or maybe the whole thing is legitimate and someone in accounting forgot to file the paperwork and Tim is just chasing his tail.

Tim frowns into his coffee, fingers tracing the edge of the mug as he weighs his options. If there is something going on at the theater, it has to be something that’s flown under the Red Hood’s radar. White collar crime, probably. It’s not nothing, but… he’d have to investigate as Red Robin, without any of the weight being the real Robin gave to his name. Without a Batman. It rankles, but Tim takes pride in his pragmatism. (He has only ever been a placeholder, he knows that.) But with all of that, with  _ everything  _ on his plate, is the theater really worth investigating further? 

Tim puts down his coffee and rifles through his ongoing case files. He’s been working hard to close out as many cases as he can this week and there’s only two left. Two cases, and he’s in the clear to follow the lead he’s got on Bruce. 

Tim laughs. There’s only one possible answer, isn’t there?

Batman, the  _ real  _ Batman, has always needed a Robin.

* * *

Tim rifles through his closet for the third time that morning, searching for anything even close to appropriate that will still fit him. Nothing. He groans in frustration and flops backward onto his bed, glaring up at his apartment ceiling. 

So. He might have forgotten to take into account that leaving Gotham for over six months while he was having a growth spurt might mean that literally nothing would fit him when he returned. Especially not the suits he’d had tailored for his stint as acting CEO. So he forgot to account for one, tiny detail while he was masterminding his ‘save Bruce from being lost in time even though everyone except maybe Alfred thinks he’s dead’ plan. It’s probably not the end of the world. He’ll just have to wear something else for his first day back at WE while he gets new suits made.

He settles on a plaid button-down and a pair of jeans that doesn’t have holes in the knees yet. He has to roll up the sleeves of the shirt to hide the fact that it’s now an inch short in the arm, but his frame hasn’t bulked out much so the rest fits fine. With a solid print tie and his newest high-tops, he’s hoping that he can pull off a business casual look. He’s seen Clark wear nearly the same thing to press conferences, so hopefully he won’t be too out of place.

Tim rushes through the rest of his morning routine, settling for just coffee instead of coffee and toast since he hasn’t actually had time to get groceries yet, and manages to get to work just in time for his morning appointment with Tam and Lucius.

When that ends, he heads straight into a meeting with the board members. To his relief, no one comments on his state of dress, though he sees more than one raised eyebrow. More importantly, he’s able to submit the proposal he’s been working on since he dragged Bruce out of time. As soon as it’s approved by the rest of the board (he gives it a month), Bruce will be able to resume his duties as CEO and Tim will be shuffled off somewhere out of the public eye-- R&D, probably. He can’t wait to go back to being… well, anything but the CEO, to be honest. The board hadn’t exactly been thrilled with a seventeen year old taking Bruce’s place and Tim sympathizes completely. Even with Lucius advising him which moves to make, he’s been petrified of messing something up. 

He spends the rest of his day going over reports in his office while Tam fends off reporters eager for any morsel of news about Bruce. Public Relations has already held a press conference announcing his safe return to Gotham, but that only made them more desperate to get in contact with a member of the family. And since he’s the only one who has an actual job right now, Tim’s work line has been flooded with calls. He’ll agree to an interview eventually, but for now Tam will have to hold her own. He has other things to worry about.

Most of those things are directly tied to the fact that the board is pushing hard to get their budget approved as soon as possible. He’s certain that they’re trying to take advantage of his inexperience and slide in as many pay cuts and unnecessary expenditures as they can get away with before Bruce comes back to slap them down. He’s been combing through the reports for two hours straight now. His eyes ache and his brain is trying to melt out of his ears, but he’s going to go through everything line by line if it kills him. 

(It  _ is  _ killing him. He’s dying for a nap; a nice, six hour long nap and all will be right with the world.)

He’s roughly three quarters of the way through the stack of reports when he comes across the fiscal report from the Martha Wayne Foundation and stops. Reads the summary page again. And pinches the bridge of his nose. The budget for the Martha Wayne Foundation is now right around five times more than it was last year or any year before. The Martha Wayne Foundation that feeds all the charities for the local arts and humanitarian efforts. The one that had a faked grant pushed through under their noses. That one.

Tim slaps the call button for Tam.

“What?” She’s on the edge of snapping at him, but he can hardly blame her under the circumstances.

“Has anyone said anything to you or Lucius about increasing the MWF’s budget?”

“Of course not! The Wayne Foundations excel at money management. We haven’t had any additional funds requests from them in years. Why would they need a budget increase?”

“Yeah,” Tim sighs, covering the top half of his face with his hand. “That’s what I thought you’d say. Okay, don’t worry about it; I’ll look into it.”

There’s a suspicious pause.

“What exactly am I not worrying about? The last time you said  _ don’t worry about it,  _ I had to chase your ass all over Europe.”

Tim groans and scrubs at his face.

“Don’t be like that, Tam. I swear, everything is  _ fine _ . It’s really, truly, 100% just a budget thing.”

“It better be! If I hear you’ve set one foot outside of Gotham, I’ll-- I’ll tell Bruce.  _ He  _ can chase you down this time.”

“ _ Please  _ do not bother Bruce with any of this. He’s already looking for excuses to come back early and the board will have both our heads if we don’t play this by the book.”

Tam clicks her tongue, unimpressed.

“You just don’t want to get  _ grounded _ . Bruce knows better than to show up unannounced. Forget the board, the swarm of reporters outside would eat him alive.”

“You would think.” Tim says dryly. “Unfortunately,  _ he _ is grounded and spoiling for any kind of fight he can get.”

Tam laughs, startled.

“Who grounds Ba- Bruce Wayne?”

Tim grins.

“Alfred. Who else?”

“Alright, alright,” she says with another laugh. “I won’t say anything. But seriously, try not to do anything stupid.”

“I won’t. Promise.”

He clicks off the intercom and scans through the report’s itemized expenses. As he suspected, there’s another faked grant on the books. But the faked grant only accounts for 5% of the budget increase. The rest of the money has been fed back into real expenditures under the MWF umbrella. The allowance for every expenditure has been increased by at least five grand, with the allotment for the food kitchens and orphanages increasing a full 50 grand each. Every dollar is accounted for.

He grabs the other reports and flips through them as fast as he dares. He spots a few of those unnecessary expenditures he was looking for, but nothing outside what he expected to find. And certainly nothing like what’s been done to the MWF’s budget. 

“This is crazy,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Why would someone hack into WE just to funnel more money into the charity sector? I could understand if it was all going to one place, but this is…” He trails off and drums his fingers against the desk. He stares at the numbers for a moment longer before pulling out his phone. He finds the number he’s looking for and dials, chewing at his bottom lip. It rings for several minutes before anyone answers.

“North Gotham Community Theater, this is Avraham.”

“Hello!” Tim says brightly. “I’d like to buy a ticket for your next show, please.”

“Would that be a ticket for opening night of  _ The Importance of Being Earnest _ or a ticket to next month’s  _ Speckled Birds _ ?” 

“Oh, sorry. The first one, please.”

“Just a moment.” It sounds like the phone’s been put down. There is a shuffling of papers, a scratching, and then a clack as the phone is picked up again.

“Rear orchestra or mezzanine?”

“Mezzanine is fine.”

“Name?”

“Alvin Draper.”

“I have one ticket to  _ The Importance of Being Earnest _ , mezzanine seating, on Thursday at 7pm. Will that be all?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Avraham rattles off the price of the ticket and where and when and how to get it with the same false cheeriness of all people in customer service. Tim thanks him again and hangs up, penciling in the date on his calendar. 

He’ll have two days to prep for this little mission. He’ll need to work out how he’s going to get some of his gear into Crime Alley without Hood finding it, but he’s not too concerned. He and Jason aren’t exactly on friendly terms, but he hasn’t tried to kill Tim lately either, so. Cautious optimism. He’ll do some investigating around WE before then, too, but something tells him that the theater is going to hold all the answers he needs.

* * *

Tim fiddles with his playbill and counts down the minutes until the show begins. He is hyper-aware of the folded up mask and smoke pellets secreted in his front pocket, the cool metal of his collapsible bo staff pressing against his spine. He’ll be much happier when the show is over and he can sneak up into the rafters to hide until the last of the workers leave.

The lights dim and Tim settles back into his seat as the auditorium falls silent. The audience breaks into scattered applause when an old man pushes his way past the heavy red curtain, microphone in hand. His spectacles glint in the spotlight as he waves the theater quiet.

“Welcome back, my friends! I am Avraham Novitski, the owner of this little theater, and I am also the producer and director for all performances this season.” Another round of applause, more enthusiastic than the last. He beams at the audience and gestures to the room at large. “As you can see, we continue to improve our theater this year-- and I hope you will agree, our performances as well!” A ripple of laughter. “We open our season with an old favorite of mine, a show this troupe performs often. But if you have looked at your playbill, you will see that the rest of our shows this season have never been performed in this theater. More than that, for the first time in a decade, the troupe will be performing a musical!” Another round of applause, spackled with cheers. Avraham waits for the cheers to die down and continues. “Yes, yes, it is all very exciting! So exciting, that before our show begins, I would like to take this time to thank the man who has made all of this possible.” Avraham turns to face stage left and beckons someone on stage. “Todd Peters! Come on out, Todd.”

Tim leans forward in his chair, eyebrows furrowing. A tall, powerfully built man dressed like a stage hand walks on to the stage with a half-wave and a shy smile. He looks vaguely familiar, but Tim is too far away to see his face clearly. Avraham claps the man on the back and turns to face the audience.

“Todd is one of our most generous patrons and has been responsible for the upkeep of this theater for the past three years. He also serves as our stage manager and set designer. I can confidently say that he has put more time into this theater than perhaps anyone but myself. Let us show our appreciation.”

Avraham passes the microphone over to Todd and applauds, the audience joining in politely. Todd shifts on his feet with a nervous laugh as he waves everyone quiet. Tim narrows his eyes; he has definitely seen this guy somewhere before.

“Thank you. Thanks.” 

Tim feels like he’s been sucker-punched. That sounds like-- but it can’t be, can it? 

“I’m usually more of a behind-the-scenes guy, but I’d like to take just a few minutes to tell you about some of the programs we’re offering this year. We’re working hard to make this theater a safe haven in our community, and I’m proud of what we’ve done so far.”

“Holy  _ shit _ .” Tim whispers. 

Todd--  _ Jason _ , continues with his spiel but Tim isn’t listening any more. His head spins as he tries to process the fact that Jason has, apparently, made the theater his base of operations. No wonder they’d never been able to figure out where Jason was always disappearing to-- he was in the one place none of them would even think to look. And the fake grants, the new budget-- good G-d, it all made sense now.

There is another round of applause and the show begins as the two men duck out of sight. Tim spends the entire play trying to catch another glimpse of Jason and consoling himself with the knowledge that he’s not wholly unprepared for a confrontation. He has his staff and a few other odds and ends tucked into pockets and Jason isn’t expecting him, so if it comes to blows, he’ll  _ probably  _ have an advantage. 

By the time the final curtain falls, Tim is twitchy and nauseous. He bolts for the exit and vaults down the stairs, making it to the ground floor before anyone else has even gotten out of their seat. Instead of exiting into the reception area, Tim slips a smoke pellet into his hand and bursts through the door behind the staircase, startling a gaggle of performers on the far side of the room. One of the girls is so startled she screams and Jason thunders into the room, head swivelling until his eyes lock with Tim’s.

“Oh.” Jason says.

“Hello.” Tim smiles tightly.

“ _ Fuck _ .” Jason says, with feeling.

“Fuck.” Tim agrees.

The shortest girl pushes her way to the front of the group, chin sticking out defiantly.

“You aren’t supposed to be back here. You need to leave.”

Jason puts a hand on her shoulder and pulls her back with a shake of the head, mouth a thin line. She glares up at him and the two have a rapid-fire conversation in hushed Spanish. Jason must win the argument because the girl pulls away from him and falls back into the group, fists balled up at her sides and glaring at Tim for all she’s worth. Jason moves in front of them, shoving a hand into his pocket. He looks calm, relaxed. Tim doesn’t buy it for a second.

“The lady’s right. You need to leave.”

“We need to talk.”

“I ain’t doing this here. Get the fuck out.”

“Not until I get some answers.” He sounds a lot more confident than he feels.

A stage hand pokes his head in the door, expression immediately falling when he sees Tim. His eyes dart between Jason and Tim and he takes a position at Jason’s side, cracking his knuckles.

“There a problem here, boss?”

Jason sneers. 

“No. Our guest was just leaving.”

Tim’s eyes narrow.

“I’ll bring B in on this if I have to.” 

Jason’s head jerks back to him.

“You fucking wouldn’t.”

(He wouldn’t. He really, really wouldn’t.)

“Try me.”

Jason snarls.

“Two hours.  _ Leave _ .”

Tim inclines his head and backs out of the room, eyes still locked on Jason until the door closes between them. His pulse thumps against his throat and he’s almost surprised at how little time has passed. The corridor is packed with people meandering their way to the exit. He takes a deep breath and slips into the crowd, dropping the smoke pellet back into his pocket. As soon as he’s free of the press of people, he books it to the safehouse on the edge of Burnley and changes into a spare uniform. 

Once he triple checks each compartment on his bandolier, swaps out his collapsible staff for his custom model, and tests the charge on his electrified bolas, he takes to the rooftops. It doesn’t take him long to reach what he’s privately dubbed “The Neutral Zone.” It’s actually the roof of a condemned apartment complex that overlooks a 24-hour diner that’s been open as long as Tim can remember. The complex is in Burnley, the diner in Crime Alley. It’s as close as any Bat can get without Jason getting up in arms. Literally.

Tim spends the next hour pacing and running through what he’ll say to Jason. And what he’ll do when their ‘talk’ inevitably degrades into an all-out brawl. When it gets close to the two-hour mark, Tim plants himself in the center of the roof and leans against his staff. It’s not long before he spots Jason making his way across the rooftops as the Red Hood.

As soon as Jason’s boots touch the rooftop, he pulls off his helmet and glares at Tim, curls flattened and bedraggled. He starts and stops several times, eventually settling for crossing his arms and fuming. Tim is more than happy to let him simmer. The longer he stews, the less likely this is to end in a brawl.

Eventually, Jason huffs and looks away from Tim long enough to light a cigarette. He takes a long drag and lets his head fall back, blowing smoke at the stars. Well, where the stars would be if this wasn’t Gotham.

“You gonna tell me why you were at the theater tonight?” Jason says dully.

Tim cocks his head to the side.

“I will if you will.”

Jason takes another drag.

“You gonna tell Bats?”

“Maybe. Depends.”

“On?”

“On how illegal it is.”

Jason snorts and tips his head back down to catch Tim’s eye.

“Says the vigilante to the drug lord.”

“You know what I meant, Hood.”

Jason purses his lips and stares at Tim for a long moment before turning away to sit at the edge of the roof. Tim hesitates, but follows suit. He sits just far enough away that it won’t be easy for Jason to push him off.

“How much do you know?”

“I know you hacked into WE and faked a few grants. I know you were trying to move some money around, redid the budget for the MWF.”

“Damn. The old man caught that?”

Tim shakes his head and leans back to rest on his elbows, faking nonchalance.

“B has no idea. I caught it while I was going through the financial records.”

“The hell were you looking at those for?”

“Hood, that’s literally my job right now.”

Jason twists to look at him, eyebrows furrowed.

“But that’s… aw, shit. That’s right. You were doing B’s job while he was gone. I thought you were done with that, now he’s back.”

“Nah, not yet. Next month, probably. There’s a lot of red tape to get through before he can take the company back.”

“I guess it doesn’t really matter if you tell him or not then, does it. He’ll find out anyway.”

“Not… necessarily. I can clear the budget before he gets back. He’ll be so busy looking for anything I missed that he won’t notice the changes in the MWF. If he does, he won’t look into it. He trusts the people in that department. But I won’t help unless I know why you did it.”

Jason grunts and stubs his cigarette out on the concrete, pocketing the filter.

“Because he shouldn’t trust the people in that department. I did you both a favor. You know the budget for the MWF was only 100k a year?”

“Yes? That’s always been the budget.”

“That’s the problem, dipstick. The TWF’s budget is over 2 million now. I checked. But the MWF’s hasn’t changed since it was established.”

Tim frowns.

“That’s… true. But they’ve never requested any additional funding. And the money always ends up where it’s supposed to. I checked while I was trying to track  _ you _ .”

Jason sneers.

“Yeah? Well, you been to a soup kitchen lately, Replacement? Course not, you’re a  _ rich boy _ . Let me  _ enlighten  _ you. They ain’t got shit but ramen and cabbage soup. They’re lucky to see anything fresh that ain’t already half-rotten. And them orphan homes? They’re a fucking disgrace. Buncha kids dressed in hand-me-downs with only broken toys to play with. At first I thought all the runaways I was gettin was because of some corrupt bastard up top. But I did some lookin’ and it turns out that you rich  _ fucks ‘ _ forgot’ that you gotta account for inflation and the poverty tax and all that other  _ shit. _ ”

“I… it didn’t occur to me.”

“Course it didn’t. Not like the MWF makes any money. It doesn’t even matter to people like  _ you _ .”

“That’s not true.” Tim says sharply.

“It is,” Jason snarls back. “You’ve only ever been worried about  _ yourself _ . I’m trying to save a whole fucking neighborhood and the only thing you even noticed was some of your precious  _ money  _ missing. Once a rich boy, always a rich boy.”

“That’s not fair!”

“But it is the  _ truth _ .” 

“How was I supposed to help if I didn’t know there was a problem? I’m not omniscient, Hood. And you don’t let anybody in Crime Alley. How were we supposed to know?” Tim counters.

Jason’s chest heaves and his hands ball into fists, but he’s listening. Tim pushes on.

“I had no idea this was going on and I’m sorry about that. But now I know and I can help you fix it. I can make sure the MWF gets all the money it needs. We can work together on this.”

He lets the words sink in before licking his lips and continuing.

“I don’t have a problem helping you, Hood. I  _ want  _ to help. But before I can, before I make any promises, I need to know what’s really going on. I get why you changed the budget, I do. But there’s still a lot of things you aren’t telling me.”

Jason’s fists uncurl and he exhales between clenched teeth.

“What do you want to know?”

“Before I left Gotham, there was a grant on the books tagged for renovations but no other changes to the budget.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It was a test. To see what I could get away with. And I guess it was insurance, too. In case something happened to me. Things got a little… dicey for a while.”

“Okay,” Tim says slowly. “And what’s the deal with the theater?”

Jason flops back onto the roof, laying flat next to Tim.

“It’s just a theater.”

“Hood.”

Jason wrinkles his nose.

“I was using it as a hideout when I first came back to Gotham. But then I got… involved.”

“Involved how?”

Jason pushes himself up on an elbow with a glare.

“You tell anyone about this and I will  _ skin  _ you.”

“I already said I’d help. You don’t want anyone to know, no one will know.”

Jason glares some more before laying back down, a sour twist to his mouth.

“If I find out you’re lying to me Replacement, I swear to G-d, I’ll--”

“You’ll decapitate me and put my head on a spike. Just tell me already.”

Jason mutters something under his breath.

“What?”

“I said, it’s a  _ hobby _ . Or it started out that way. Now it’s kind of my day job, I guess.”

“Wait. You actually work at the theater? I thought that was just… an act. Something to throw people off the trail.”

“No. Avraham wasn’t-- he wasn’t kidding about how much time I spend at that place.”

“Huh. How’d that happen?”

“Like I said. At first it was just a hideout. But then this kid almost died and I saved her-- Tiffani, real sweet girl. And I found out they needed help keeping afloat and Avraham’s always done a lot for the kids in Crime Alley, so… I decided to help out where I could. And one thing kind of led to another and pretty soon it was--” Jason cut himself off with a half-shrug. “I’m there all the time. And word gets around. So now it might as well be my base of operations during the day.”

Tim chews on his lip, considering how to ask the next question. Probably best just to say it and get it over with.

“So you run your operation from there. You using the troupe as drug mules?”

Jason bolted upright.

“You fucking  _ stupid _ ? Of course I don’t!”

“You said--”

“I  _ said  _ I spend a lot of time there during the day. People need to pass info to the Hood, they talk to ‘Todd.’ They need  _ help _ , they talk to ‘Todd.’ If they don’t know ‘Todd’s’ name, they don’t get in to the theater. And nobody wanting to do  _ business  _ knows that name. I ain’t draggin’ the theater into that shit. There is absolutely nothing illegal goin’ on in that theater, except my being there, comprende?”

Tim squints. The next question probably won’t go over well, but he’s already gotten more from poking this bear than he thought he would.

“Are you sure about that? You got a lot of kids running around that theater, Hood. Attracts a certain type. How well do you really know Avraham? You said he’s always looked after kids. Is that all he’s doing?”

Jason goes pale and shoots to his feet. His hands are shaking. 

“Go home, Replacement.” His voice is icy, dripping venom. He slips a hand into his pocket, fist clenching around something as he stabs his other finger at Tim. “Stay away from my theater. And keep your  _ fucking  _ mouth shut.”

Tim inclines his head in acknowledgment and moves slowly to his feet. He backs away from Jason until he is halfway across the roof, then turns and runs. He doesn’t slow down until he’s back at the Burnley safehouse, doors barred and security grid armed. Even then, he’s not certain he’s safe. Jason could always change his mind and chase Tim down, attack him while he’s unaware. He’s done it before. 

Tim sighs and pushes the emergency cot to the far corner of the windowless room, where he can see both doors. It is, he reflects, going to be a very long night.

* * *

Tim startles at a loud thump behind him and spins to face the window, grabbing his staff from its place against the wall. Someone pounds on the window, three quick blows then silence. Tim creeps closer and twitches the curtain to the side just enough to see Jason, in full Red Hood attire, crouching on the fire escape in the pouring rain. Jason pounds at the window again, hard enough to rattle the glass in the frame, and jabs a finger at the latch. Tim bites his lip but gestures for Jason to wait. Tim disarms his security system and releases the latch, retreating to the opposite side of the room.

Tim watches as Jason pushes the window open and slides into his living room with a wet slap, pulling the window shut behind him. The other man slips his helmet off but keeps everything else on-- including his dripping leather coat and sopping boots. Tim sighs; the carpet will be damp for hours. Jason sweeps the hair back from his face one-handed as he scans what he can see of the apartment.

“Y’know,” Jason drawls. “I half-expected your place to be a complete wreck.”

“You come all the way here just to insult me?”

Jason drops his helmet onto the low coffee table, collapsing into the leather couch Tim has never actually used. Tim cringes just a little and makes a mental note to wipe the couch down the minute Jason leaves. The carpet will dry on its own, but Mrs. Mac taught him that water can stain leather.

“No. But it is a perk.” Jason grins and laces his fingers behind his head, looking quite at home.

Tim raises an eyebrow and hesitates before leaning his staff back against the wall.

“You’re in a good mood.”

“I’m always in a good mood, Replacement.”

Tim snorts and folds into a tailor’s seat on the floor. 

“You’re  _ never  _ in a good mood.”

Jason shrugs, but says nothing. Instead, he  _ stares _ . The blank white lenses of his domino disguise Jason’s intent, though the stare doesn’t feel threatening or even unfriendly. The weight of it still settles heavy around Tim’s shoulders, stifling. He shifts uneasily and clears his throat, eyes darting down to the carpet.

“So why  _ did  _ you come?”

“I…” Jason pauses for dramatic effect. “Am solving a puzzle.”

“A puzzle.” Tim echoes.

Jason unlaces his hands and leans forward, propping elbows on knees.

“You didn’t tell anyone. That surprised me, Replacement. I thought I’d have Bruce knocking down my door within the week. But it’s been a full month and-” he holds his hands out, palms up. “Nothing.”

“You told me not to tell. I didn’t tell.”

“I also told you to stay away from my theater. We both know you haven’t done that.”

“Only because I needed more information.” Tim counters. “I made sure everyone else was gone before I went in. I would have done it all digitally, but that place’s online presence is a  _ joke _ .”

“Yeah,” Jason says with a crooked smile. “Avraham hates computers. He still mails in his tax returns. It’s  _ hilarious _ .”

“It’s  _ inconvenient _ .”

“Still doesn’t answer why you haven’t told anyone, though.”

Tim frowns and brings his leg up to his chest, resting chin on knee.

“I keep secrets all the time.”

“Not mine. We ain’t exactly close and I ain’t done  _ you  _ any favors.”

Tim shrugs.

“It’s not that big a deal. I’ve gotten used to it. I’m like a… a secret magnet.” Tim pauses, a satisfied smirk curling the corners of his lips. “I know  _ all  _ of Bruce’s secrets.”

Jason scoffs.

“ _ Nobody _ knows all of Bruce’s secrets.”

“I do.” Tim says with utmost conviction. He knows things that even Alfred doesn’t. Now that Bruce is back and Robin is Damian’s, sometimes it feels like his last bit of usefulness.

“Maybe. But you don’t keep secrets for free. I know you blackmailed your way into being Robin. So what do you want from me? Name your price.”

“My….” Tim blinks, bewildered. “I don’t want anything from you.” Not true. He’d very much like Jason to stop trying to kill him, but he figures that isn’t on the table. “You’re family, Jason. You want me to keep a secret, I will.”

Jason bursts into laughter, frayed around the edges. 

“Family? That’s rich. You do remember I tried to kill you.”

Tim raises an eyebrow.

“Jason, literally everyone has tried to kill me at some point.” He thinks about it, then shrugs. “Except Cass. But that’s probably a matter of time.”

Jason stills.

“You’re serious.”

Tim shrugs, nonchalant.

“Sure. Everyone’s taken a swing at me at one point or another. It’s  _ usually  _ fear toxin. Except when it’s Damian. Believe it or not, he’s higher on the scoreboard than you. He’s at-“ Tim does some mental math. “Twelve, if you count the time I was poisoned. Though that  _ could  _ have been someone else.”

Jason’s expression is completely unreadable. He’s quiet for so long that Tim reminds himself that there is a table and several feet of floor between the two of them if he needs to make an escape.

“Twelve, huh.” He rolls the words around in his mouth, as if he can taste them.

Tim nods.

“More or less.”

“And you still call them family.”

“Well, yeah. I may be emancipated, but Bruce adopted me. A few disagreements doesn’t change that.” Jason is quiet again and Tim has forgotten how to shut up. “I mean, I’m not  _ stupid _ . I  _ did  _ blackmail my way into the family and things have been… tense for a while now. So I’ll stay over here doing my own thing and when they want me again, they’ll call.”

Tim glances over at Jason, still finds his expression inscrutable. He’d never appreciated how much the domino could obscure before tonight.

“That goes for you, too. Everyone else will come around eventually. I mean, Bruce is still upset about the whole ‘killing people’ thing, but he’ll probably get over it soon. There haven’t been any deaths we could trace back to you in months.”

“That’s because it’s been a year and three months since I killed anyone.” Jason says, casually. Tim starts in surprise, mouth dropping open before splitting into a beaming smile.

“You… Jason that’s great! You should tell Bruce! I bet he’ll—“

“No.” Jason says sharply. “I’m not telling him. And I don’t want you to tell him either. I didn’t do it for  _ him _ .”

“But-- I don’t understand. Why’d you stop?”

Jason shrugs, slumping back into the couch. He stares up at Tim’s ceiling and slips a hand into his pocket. Tim contents himself with tracing the swirls in his carpet while he waits. Eventually, Jason answers him.

“Did you know,” he begins. “That when someone uses a Lazarus Pit, a part of the pit comes back with them? Talia called it Pit Madness. She said that it wears off, a little at a time. I think she was wrong. It’s been years, but there’s still...something. Something hiding where I can’t see it.” He stops, wets his lips and starts again. “Sometimes it crawls around under your skin until you can’t think about anything else; just what it wants. And you know the only thing it wants is destruction. And if you try to ignore it, it gets worse and worse until you’ll do anything to make it stop. That’s the worst part. Things getting so out of control you can’t do anything but give in. So you destroy something-- someone-- and it goes quiet. For a while.” 

Jason pauses, letting his words sink into the carpet. 

“I stopped because I couldn’t tell what was me and what was the Pit.” Jason shrugs, uneasy. “The theater helped some, but not nearly enough. So I told Roy about it. And he had an idea.” Jason pulls a bronze coin from his pocket, holds it between thumb and forefinger to display an embossed ‘I’ in the center of a triangle. There’s writing around the coin’s edges and along the triangle, but Tim is too far away to make it out. “It’s my AA chip; Assassins Anonymous. Roy, Jade, and I have meetings every month. More, when we need them. We came up with a code,  _ rules  _ we have to follow. There’s… allowances built in. But if I break the code-- if any of us breaks the code-- we lose our chip.” Jason shrugs again, tucking the chip back into his pocket. “It’s not a perfect system. But it helps.”

Tim rocks back, planting both hands on the carpet behind him as he thinks. It’s several minutes more before he replies, choosing his words with care.

“I knew pit madness existed, but I had no idea it was that bad.” He bites his lower lip. “I know this isn’t something you want to talk to Bruce about, but I think you should. It might help smooth things over between you. And he’ll want to help.”

“No. I’m not talking to him about this. Every time we get in the same room we just--” Jason bangs his knuckles together with a grimace. “It makes everything worse.” He exhales sharply and tugs at a lock of hair. “It was never this bad before. We had fights, sure, but he always listened. I’ve never seen him fight like this with anyone, not even Dickface. At first I thought it was just because I wasn’t following his rules, but now... I’m not sure. I think he just can’t let it go. And I can’t change what happened.”

Tim frowns.

“That’s not--” He cuts himself off, sighs. “Listen, we both know Bruce has a lot of issues. But you didn’t see how much  _ worse  _ he was after your death. And just when he finally started working through some things, you came back as the Red Hood. And things got... complicated.” Tim’s eyes dart up to Jason’s face. “I’m not making excuses for him and it’s not going to be easy. But there are things about Bruce that you need to know, things that I can’t tell you. And there are things he needs to know about you. You  _ need  _ to talk to him. I’m not saying you have to tell him everything, but I think you really need to talk about  _ this _ . Trust him, just a little. Keeping  _ this  _ secret won’t help anyone.”

Jason’s mouth twists and he leans away, crossing his arms as he falls back into the couch. The apartment falls into a stilted silence. Tim greets it like an old friend, familiar with its passing; it is the silence that always follows hard truths. Eventually, Jason sighs and grabs his helmet from the coffee table.

“I’ll think about it.”

The ghost of a smile flits across Tim’s face.

“That’s all I ask.”

Jason slips the helmet back on and leaves the way he came. He pauses and sticks his head back through the window, rain dripping from helmet to floor, though Jason himself doesn’t seem to notice.

“Hey, Replacement.”

“Yeah?” 

“I guess if you wanted to drop by the theater sometime, that’d be okay with me.”

Tim tilts his head.

“Thought you didn’t want me around?”

“Yeah, well. If you’re gonna keep quiet, maybe I don’t mind. See ya around, kid.”

Jason shuts the window and grapples away, leaving Tim alone with his secrets.

* * *

Tim is beginning to regret some things. Mainly the things that led to him flat on his back with an infected wound somewhere in the al-Dahna-- whatever those things were. It’s all so familiar. The baking heat, the bone-deep exhaustion, the searing ache of his torso-- but memory slips from him. 

He is going to die here if he does not move. It is a certainty, oily and unpleasant when he can grasp the thought at all. But it is so hard to think with the heat playing tricks. The whistling wind distorts into a ringing phone and the rough sand plastered to his skin flickers into old cotton sheets, thin and pilling. He stares up, eyes watering in the searing sun, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. It is so hot and he is so tired.

He doesn’t know how much time passes. He fades, in and out, but the sun never strays from the center of the sky. He thinks that maybe, when he wasn’t paying attention, he died and went to Hell. That thought shifts into another oily certainty when the Red Hood, inhuman and menacing, appears above him. Tim flinches and tries to protest, but all that escapes his cracking lips is a hoarse croak. He squeezes his eyes shut and curls into himself, ignoring the breath-stealing slash of pain in his side as best he can as he waits for the first blow to land. 

It never does. It takes time for that to sink in, for him to uncurl and open his eyes, searching. Instead of the Red Hood, he finds Jason, just Jason, peeling off a leather glove as he sinks down onto the coarse sand. His vision is fuzzing at the edges and he knows it has to be another mirage, more wishful thinking from his heat addled-brain. But Jason is touching his forehead and Tim is leaning into his hand, breath stuttering. The cool hand is withdrawn and tears gather in the corners of his eyes as his relief turns to terror that it is just another form of torment.

“Shhh, esta bien. Estoy aquí.”

Jason pushes back his sweat-drenched hair and presses fingers against the underside of Tim’s jaw. Tim melts back into his touch, though a hazy part of him insists that it was Tam last time, it should be Tam.

“Hey. Look at me, Tim.”

Tim blinks rapidly and tries to focus. There are freckles all over Jason’s face- did he know Jason had freckles and green, green eyes? They’re like, like  _ something _ , just on the tip of his tongue. Jason puts a hand on his shoulder and jostles him before he can remember what it is. The movement takes Tim’s breath away and he chokes, shrinking away from Jason’s grasp. There is a muted stream of Spanish as something he can’t see pulls at his clothes, pushing and pulling at the fabric insistently. The way the fibers scrape against his skin is even worse than the constant pressure of the sand beneath him. It prods at his wound and his vision whites out.

When he reopens his eyes, the sun has disappeared and the scorching heat has been replaced with a shattering cold that threatens to shake him apart. He is still trying to work out where the sun went and how he got out of-- hell? The desert?-- when Jason reappears, worry lines where there were none before. He gives Tim a crooked smile as he leans in to brush the hair back from Tim’s forehead.

“Hey kid. You’re pretty sick, huh?”

Tim tries to reply, but he’s hardly formed the words when Jason shushes him.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You haven’t had any water in a while. I’d give you some, but I don’t need you puking in the car.”

Tim is still working his way through that sentence when he hears a knock.

“That’ll be Alfred. Hang tight.”

Jason leaves and when he comes back, Alfred follows behind him. There is a small black bag perched atop a small mountain of blankets in his arms and he dumps everything next to Tim. Tim is so tired and things are so strange now that he gives up making any sense of it. He doesn’t fight them as they push and pull at his body, stuffing him into clean clothes and fresh blankets, their quiet conversation washing over him.

“You cleaned the wound while he was unconscious?”

“Yeah. Found his kit under the sink. It’s definitely infected.”

“You were right to call. He’ll need treatment at the manor.”

“Alfie, I told you I don’t want-”

“I have already addressed the issue. Master Damian has gone with Master Dick for outdoor survival training the remainder of the weekend. And as you know, Master Bruce left for Star City this morning. No one will be at the manor but myself and Master Tim.”

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the effort, but it’s going to take longer than a day and a half for the kid to get back on his feet again.”

“On that, we agree. His fever is worrying and there are several scars here I was not aware of. I particularly don’t like the look of  _ this _ one. An extended stay will allow us time to identify the cause. And perhaps allow time enough to talk sense into the boy when he’s more lucid. He ought to know better than to try and deal with something like this on his own.”

“Can you blame him for not coming around?  _ Twelve times, _ Alfred.”

A sigh.

“It  _ is _ most distressing; I had no idea it was even a concern. But I assure you, a thirteenth attempt will not occur under  _ my _ roof.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“I rather think I can. Despite his penchant towards deadly violence, he is not half the young hellion his father was. There, that’s done. Let’s get him to the car.”

Tim’s eyes pop back open as the world lurches sickeningly. He groans and stiffens, pulling away from Jason’s hold.

“Be still!” Alfred says sharply and Tim makes himself go limp immediately. Squeezing his eyes shut, he does his best to breathe through the sudden nausea. The lurching settles into swaying and Tim sinks further into his blankets, head pillowed on Jason’s shoulder.

The trip to the car is mercifully short and it isn’t long before Tim is bundled into the backseat, propped up against Jason’s chest. The steady drone of the car and the low rumble of Jason’s voice quiets the last vestiges of nausea and Tim falls asleep before they’ve even left the parking lot.

The next time he remembers waking, he is in his room at the manor, swaddled in blankets and soaked in sweat. He grunts in disgust and sits up to push the blankets away, but before he gets them even halfway down, someone grabs his wrist.

“Not so fast. Your fever only broke an hour ago.”

Tim blinks in surprise and follows the hand up to a face he wasn’t expecting to see.

“An hour ago. Jason? What are you doing here?”

“What’s it look like? Watching out for your sorry ass.”

Jason opens a bottled water and offers it to Tim. He takes it wordlessly, downing a quarter of the bottle at once. Tim frowns, cradling the bottle to his chest. He already feels wrung out, though he’s only been awake for a moment. He flips through his most recent memories, frowning at the disjointed mess they make.

“But I thought- I thought that was a dream.”

Jason leans back in the chair sitting by the bed. There’s a book propped open on his lap and another half-empty water bottle on Tim’s nightstand. He’s clearly been here a while.

“No such luck, kid. How much do you remember? You were kind of out of it when I showed up.”

Tim scrubs at his face, mouth twisting further at the slight pull of an IV in his hand.

“It was Thursday. I got injured on patrol the night before, so I worked from home. After lunch I had a low fever, so I called off patrol. I went to take a nap and then… everything gets weird. You were there, I think. And then Alfred showed up. And now I’m here.” 

Jason crosses his arms with a frown.

“You’re missing some time. I didn’t find you until Saturday morning, about 5 am. We were supposed to meet up around midnight, trade intel. You never showed, so I started asking around. Found you unresponsive in your bedroom, so I called in Alfred.” Jason pauses. “It’s Monday afternoon, if you’re wondering.”

Tim’s eyebrows knit together.

“Oh. I don’t- I woke up and I thought I was in Saudi Arabia. I was… confused.”

“That’s where you lost your spleen, isn’t it.”

“Yeah.”

Jason nods and sucks on his teeth, something in his eyes hardening. Tim looks away from Jason, refocusing on his IV. He picks at the tape, startles when his hand is smacked away.

“Leave it.”

“But you said my fever broke. And I’m awake now.”

“Congratulations. You didn’t die. You want it to stay that way, you leave the flipping IV alone.”

“But I—“

Jason steamrolls over him.

“No, you don’t get an opinion. I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Replacement. After all that drivel earlier about  _ talking to Bruce, trusting Bruce, not keeping secrets from Bruce, _ where the hackey sack do you get off not telling Bruce about your mother trucking  _ spleen _ ?”

Tim’s mouth drops open.

“I’m sorry,  _ what _ ?”

“I  _ said  _ why the sniddly snack didn’t you tell anyone that you’re missing your hecking spleen?”

“Why are you  _ talking _ like that?”

“Alfred has a swear jar and I have a bet with Richard. Stop avoiding the question, nitwit. Secret spleen. Why.”

“I’m not avoiding the- I didn’t tell anyone because I thought everyone already knew!” Tim can feel the blood rushing to his face and he’s not sure if it’s embarrassment or fury. “I updated my file as soon as I got back with Bruce. Forgive me for assuming anyone bothered to look.”

“That’s ridiculous, no one reads the files unless they have to. Why would you think-“

“I do.” Tim interrupts, pulse pounding in his ears. “After every single update.” His energy is flagging and he sinks back into his blankets, the heat in his voice fading in the face of his exhaustion. “I get a notification sent to my phone. Even when I was overseas, I read them.”

Jason groans and buries his face in his hands.

“Oh sweet mother of justice, I can’t even look at you right now. Tim. Timmy. Timbo. I need you to understand something, okay.” Jason raises his head from his hands to glare at Tim. “No one else in this cesspit of a family is that fudging anal. Okay? I said it. If something important happens to you, like, I dunno, losing a fracking organ, you’re gonna have to open up your piehole and tell someone with your mouth words.”

Tim glares back, though he’s sure the effect is lessened by the mound of blankets and his general dishevelment.

“Pot, kettle.”

Jason scoffs. 

“Shut up and drink your water.”

Tim grumbles, but props himself up to take another sip. He keeps forgetting how thirsty he is.

“You’ve upset Alfred, by the way. As soon as you’re out of bed, he’s reading you the riot act. And I have it on good authority that you’re gonna get it from Dickiebird and Batdad, too.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Tim insists. He’s halfway through the bottle now and beginning to feel sloshy.

Jason raises an eyebrow.

“You might get a pass on the ‘keeping secrets’ speech, since that was  _ apparently _ unintentional, but do you honestly believe you’re getting out of the ‘you could have died because you did something stupid’ dressdown? Why weren’t you taking antibiotics with that wound? You’re immunocompromised now, dipstick.”

Tim sighs and rubs at his eyes.

“I didn’t know I needed to. Look, can you yell at me about this later? I’m really tired.” He yawns. “And why aren’t you getting yelled at? Last I checked, everyone was still mad about the… the thing.” He yawns again.

“Not until you finish your water. And I am happy to report that, as your Lord and Savior, I have been completely forgiven for all previous wrongdoing.” Jason grins. “Bruce has been downright civil and I didn’t have to tell him a gosh darned thing. Check and mate, Replacement.”

Tim downs the rest of the water, flipping Jason off with his other hand. Jason laughs and takes the empty bottle from him.

“That’s the spirit. Keep that up and you’ll be out of here in no time.”

Tim doesn’t hear him. He’s already asleep.

* * *

Tim pats his coat pocket to reassure himself the tickets are still there and checks his watch. He has another thirty minutes before he has to leave, but it did snow earlier this week. He shrugs and grabs his hat and gloves. Nothing wrong with being a few minutes early and he doubts Jason will forgive him if he misses the performance. He’s been talking about the production for weeks; he’d even given Tim a pair of tickets and told him to bring a friend. Tim is choosing to believe it’s just because Jason wants as many people to see the play as possible and not because of…  _ other  _ things. He slides on the gloves and tugs the beanie over his ears, checking his hair in the hall mirror. His bangs are long enough now that they have an annoying tendency to curl at the ends.

“Master Timothy. I was under the impression that you had the evening off.”

Tim straightens in surprise and looks over his shoulder to see Alfred drying his hands on his apron, expression hovering between suspicion and disapproval. Tim covers his disappointment with a bright smile. Bruce and Alfred have been uncomfortably attentive since they found out about Tim’s splenectomy. He’s been spending more and more time at the manor to appease them, but he’d been hoping to escape without a lecture tonight. 

“Alfred. Hi. I didn’t realize you were still upstairs.”

Alfred raises an eyebrow.

“Miss Gordon has the comms tonight. And just where are you off to?”

“Nowhere special, just going to see a play.”

Both of Alfred’s eyebrows fly up.

“A play? I didn’t realize you were a patron of the theater.”

“It’s… kind of a new development.”

A wistful smile steals onto Alfred’s face, expression softening.

“It’s been years since I went to the theater. If I’m not mistaken, the last production I attended was with Master Jason.  _ A Midsummer Night’s Dream _ , I believe. I took him for his fifteenth birthday.”

“Is that so?” Tim says with growing delight. “I happen to have an extra ticket to the show tonight. If you’d be interested, that is.”

“On such short notice? I couldn’t possibly. I’d only be ruining your fun, Master Tim. You don’t want to drag an old man like me around during your night on the town.” Alfred blusters.

“Alfred, I can’t even begin to explain to you how much I would  _ love _ to bring you with me. Besides, it’ll just be a waste of a ticket if you don’t come.” He wheedles.

Alfred’s cheeks tint with the faintest pink.

“I- I see. And which production would we be viewing tonight?”

Tim fishes the tickets out of his pocket, fanning them out with glee.

“Clue On Stage. I’ve heard it’s a fantastic performance.”

Alfred hesitates before briskly trading his apron for a coat and scarf.

“Well, I suppose if you insist. Come, come. Let’s not dawdle, Timothy. It wouldn’t do to be late.”

“Late,” Tim echoes. “That  _ would _ be a tragedy.”

They take Alfred’s car and make it to the theater with five minutes to spare. The lights dim as they take their seats and Avraham begins his opening spiel. Tim tunes it- and the play- out. He’s busy imagining all the ways tonight could go terribly horribly wrong. And then all the ways it could go so deliciously right. Judging by Alfred’s quiet laughter, the show is just as good as Jason promised. When the applause dies down after the final curtain, Alfred leans back in his seat with a faint smile.

“It was a most delightful production, Timothy. The cast’s comedic timing was impeccable. Although, did you notice that some of the set pieces looked remarkably like rooms in the Manor? I confess, I’m curious if the similarities are a coincidence or something more.”

Tim raises an eyebrow in mock surprise.

“That  _ would  _ be quite the coincidence. We could always ask, you know. The stage manager and I have known each other for years. I could introduce you.”

“I didn’t realize you were so well connected. But I don’t want to be an imposition. It’s merely a curiosity.”

Tim gathers his belongings and chivvies Alfred towards the stairs.

“No, no, I’m sure he won’t mind. He’s a pretty nice guy, once you get to know him.”

“If you insist,” Alfred replies dubiously.

Tim guides him to the downstairs entrance that he’d used before. Rather than bursting in, he raps loudly on the door, shooting Alfred a grin more confident than he actually feels. It’s not long before someone opens the door. It’s the same stage hand that tried to square off with him last time he was here. Tim groans internally, but plasters a bright grin onto his face. As soon as the stage hand registers who it is, his eyes narrow.

“ _ You _ . Why are  _ you  _ here?”

Alfred leans in to whisper in his ear.

“Timothy, this does not bode well. Perhaps we should leave.”

Tim ignores him.

“Hi! Sorry, I didn’t catch your name last time. I’m here to see Todd.”

The stage hand crosses his arms and does his best to look menacing. The pick sticking out of his frazzled hair and the hint of baby fat around his jaw spoils the effect, but Tim can appreciate the effort. Alfred shifts uncomfortably.

“That’s tough shit. He don’t wanna see  _ you _ .”

Tim nods understandingly.

“See, I completely get why you would think that, but he’s actually  _ expecting  _ me this time. Just tell him Tim is here. If he still doesn’t want to see me, I’ll leave. Cross my heart.”

The stage hand gives Tim the nastiest look he can muster, but takes him at his word. Or maybe he’s just gone to get reinforcements. Time will tell. Alfred shakes his head, disapproval rolling off him in waves.

“Master Timothy, are you  _ quite  _ sure about this? You said you knew the man.”

“I do,” Tim soothes. “Really, it’s just that last time I was here there was a teeny tiny misunderstanding. It’s all cleared up now, honest.”

Alfred frowns, but doesn’t say anything else. There is muffled shouting in the room beyond- Spanish he thinks-- and Tim slides a step back from the door. The door swings open and the shouting gets louder.

“Deja de preocuparte princesa, todo está bien!” ‘Todd’ yells over his shoulder. He turns to face his visitors, a half smile on his face. Alfred stifles a gasp. “Hey, sorry Marcus gave you--” That’s as far as he gets, expression turning absolutely murderous when he realizes exactly who Tim brought to visit. “You son of a  _ biscuit _ . Timothy Wayne,  _ I am going to skin you. _ ”

* * *

Tim does his very best to look contrite as he files past Jason into the apartment, Alfred following behind. Jason’s apartment is much cozier than Tim’s, he notes. The furniture is old, but in good condition. Bookshelves are scattered around the perimeter of the room, pictures and posters hanging on the few exposed walls. He doesn’t get much more time to look around before Jason is sweeping into the room with a simpering smile. He slings an arm around Tim’s shoulders and it is less of a hug and more of a stranglehold.

“Would you excuse us for just a moment, Alfred?”

Alfred nods gravely, though there is a spark of amusement behind his eyes. Tim glowers and mouths ‘Traitor’ at him as Jason drags him down the short hallway and into his bedroom. Jason releases him to shut the door behind them and Tim makes the most of the opportunity to scramble over the bed, scattering pillows everywhere. He feels better when there’s a queen size mattress between them, though he keeps one of the throw pillows nearby in case he needs a quick distraction. Jason turns to face him and groans in exasperation at the state of his room.

“What the hell, Tim? You’re cleaning this up later.”

Tim grins.

“Later. So you’re  _ not  _ planning my grisly murder. Excellent.”

Jason stabs a finger in Tim’s direction.

“Don’t get excited; jury’s still deliberating. And can I just say, once again, what the  _ hell _ ? I can’t believe you  _ did  _ this.”

Tim shrugs and leans against the wall.

“You gave me two tickets. I don’t know who else you expected me to bring.”

Jason glares at him.

“A  _ date _ . A nice boy, a nice girl-- hell if I know or care. Someone that would sit your ass down later and get you to relax for once in your life.” 

Tim wrinkles his nose.

“Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen. Alfred is much better company.”

“I told you not to tell anyone, you rat.”

Tim holds up a finger.

“Technically, I didn’t.”

Jason roars in frustration and nails Tim in the head with one of the many scattered pillows.

“Get out of my room, you fucking  _ shyster! _ ”

Tim holds up his hands in surrender and darts out of the room, Jason hot on his heels.

“Alfred, Jason’s trying to kill me!”

Alfred pokes his head out of what Tim assumes to be the kitchen.

“Master Jason, I’d appreciate it if you could keep the violence limited to light maiming while I’m here. I’d rather not spend my evening off getting blood out of your carpet. Incidentally, wherever did you get these countertops? I’ve never seen butcher block quite like it.”

Jason puts on a wounded look as he shoves his way past Tim towards the kitchen.

“Alfred, I have never maimed anyone, ever, in my whole life and frankly I’m shocked you would think that of me. And of course you haven’t seen countertops like those before-- I built them.”

Alfred hums in interest, running his hand across the smooth surface.

“I didn’t realize you’d kept up the woodworking. Though I suppose if you’ve been working at the theater…” Alfred trails off and looks at Jason, raising a single eyebrow in expectation.

Jason purses his lips and opens his refrigerator instead of answering, slapping a carton of milk and a stick of butter on the counter. Tim opens his mouth and Alfred catches his eye, shaking his head. Alfred pulls a stool up to the bar and sits, folding his hands neatly and looking like he is willing to outwait the apocalypse. Tim shrugs and joins him, kicking his feet against the chair legs absentmindedly as they wait. 

They watch as Jason sets the butter on the stovetop and puts a kettle on to boil, preheating the oven while he’s there. There is a fluidity to his movement that Tim isn’t used to seeing outside of a combat situation. He moves briskly and with purpose, as if every step is something he has done a hundred times before and will likely do a hundred times more. There is a rhythm to it that reminds him of Alfred. 

Jason flits about the kitchen, pulling down ingredients and utensils. By the time he has everything together, the kettle is whistling. He whisks it off the eye and pours the water into two waiting mugs. He adds a spoonful of sugar to each cup and a splash of milk to the cup on the right and sets the tea in front of Tim and Alfred respectively, not looking either of them in the face. Tim cups his hands around the mug and sniffs, cautiously. His eyebrows shoot up when he realizes it is a cup of oolong. He steals a glance at Alfred-- Tim is the only one who actually  _ likes  _ oolong-- and is surprised to see him smiling fondly. He leans closer and catches a whiff of the strongly spiced chai Alfred favors in the colder months.

Huh.

Jason dumps the butter into a bowl and beats it into the other ingredients, the hand mixer’s quiet hum echoing through the kitchen. Tim watches his tea leaves unfurl, counting time until the steep is done. The air of expectation mellows into placid acceptance. When it is time, Tim scoops the leaves from his cup and takes a sip. The tea is bittersweet and floral, stronger than he expected after a single steep; it’s the closest he’s had in years to the tea his mother would bring back from China. Jason turns off the mixer and stands still, hands resting on the counter.

“Whatever questions you have, you should just ask them,” he says abruptly. “I won’t know where to start, otherwise.” He grabs the flour and starts measuring out cups with exaggerated care. Alfred takes a sip of tea and sets his cup down.

“How long have you been involved with the theater?” His voice is gentle, warmer than Tim has ever heard.

“Over three years now. Since I came to Gotham, really. Before any of you knew I was here.”

“And why that theater, in particular?”

One of Jason’s shoulders jerks in a half-shrug as he begins mixing the dough with his hands.

“I dunno. It was just a hideout at first. Somewhere I knew Bruce would never show.”

“I see.” Alfred nods sagely, takes another sip of his tea. “You were quite correct. His condition will never allow him to re-enter that theater.”

Jason stops mixing, turns to look over his shoulder.

“His condition?”

“Y’know,” Tim says, waving a hand dismissively. “The PTSD.”

“The what.” Jason says flatly.

Tim blinks.

“The… PTSD?”

“Bruce doesn’t have PTSD.”

Alfred’s lips thin.

“I think Master Bruce’s intricacies are best discussed another time.”

“Ok, but, before we move on,” Tim presses the palms of his hands together, fingertips pointing towards Jason. “I need to know that you understand Bruce has PTSD. PTSD is a thing that he has.”

“He does  _ not _ . Bruce is fine; he’s always fine.”

“You  _ just  _ said that you know Bruce won’t go to the theater.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So why won’t he go to the theater?”

“Because his fu--dging parents got killed. I’m not  _ stupid _ .”

“And if someone has traumatic memories that make them avoid something, they have…” Tim says, waving a hand encouragingly.

“Bruce doesn’t have PTSD, he has an  _ origin story _ .” Jason counters, annoyed. Alfred sighs.

“If it will end this pointless argument-- it is true that Master Bruce was diagnosed with PTSD when he was a child. And it is not something he likes to speak of, as you well know Master Timothy. If we could go back to the matter at hand?”

Tim makes a face but let’s it go, settling for taking a loud slurp of his tea. Jason turns back to his dough, grumbling. Alfred watches disapprovingly, waiting to ensure the matter has been well and truly dropped. When he is satisfied, he refolds his hands and continues the interrogation.

“You said you’ve worked with the theater for three years?”

“At least.”

“And you’ve already made stage manager?”

“Avraham didn’t exactly have a choice. The old stage manager quit soon after I started hanging around and he was pulling double duty as the stage manager and set designer. Without a replacement, there really wouldn’t have been much of a season. I couldn’t let the theater close down, so I’ve been doing the job ever since.”

“Even so. It’s unusual for a newcomer to attain such a… challenging position.”

Jason shrugs and pinches off a smaller lump of dough, giving it a quick roll between his palms and dropping it on a sheet pan.

“It’s a small theater. Avraham didn’t have the money back then to hire anyone, so it had to be a volunteer basis. No one else could afford to put in the extra time for it but me. I was always there doing repairs, anyhow. It just made sense.”

Alfred hums consideringly as he watches Jason fill the pan with dough balls.

“Do you like it then?”

“I…” Jason hesitates, sneaks a look at Tim and Alfred. Tim is doing his best to look non-threatening and Alfred smiles encouragingly. “I do, actually. I like it a lot.”

“That’s wonderful, Jason. I am so glad to hear it.” Alfred pauses. “Might I ask- why did you try to hide this from me?”

Jason slides the full pan into the oven with a clatter and starts filling the second with the rest of the dough. He starts and stops several times, not managing to say anything at all until the second pan is filled. 

“I wasn’t trying to hide it from  _ you,  _ necessarily. It was more that I was trying to hide it from  _ everyone _ .” He shakes his head. “I didn’t want anyone to know about… any of this, really.”

“Yet you told Timothy.”

Tim has given up appearing non-threatening and is doing his best to turn invisible.

“I didn’t tell Tim anything.” Jason says dryly.

Alfred turns an unamused look on Tim. 

“I do believe you were told to respect your brothers’ privacy, Master Timothy.”

Tim holds his hands up in surrender.

“In my defense, it was strictly business until I saw him at the theater. I wasn’t snooping on  _ purpose _ .”

Tim has a sinking feeling that he’s in for another scolding, but Alfred only harrumphs and turns his attention back to Jason. Tim counts his lucky stars and goes back to attempting invisibility. 

“Well, I do wish you’d told  _ me _ , Master Jason. You know that I’ve always enjoyed the theater. I would’ve begun attending your performances long ago. Your theater offers season tickets, I presume?”

Jason grimaces and washes his hands, drying them on a hanging towel.

“You don’t have to do that Alfred. Actually, I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”

Alfred bristles.

“Timothy attends your shows, why shouldn’t I? Do I  _ embarrass _ you, Master Jason?”

Jason recoils, as if stung.

“Of course not! It’s not like that- it’s just, it’s  _ private _ . I’m not ready for… for  _ this _ .”

Alfred tuts and waits for further explanation. Jason flusters and checks the oven instead, pulling one pan out and sliding the other in. He hovers over the hot pan, adding a smattering of sprinkles and scooping the baked goods from pan to plate. They smell like sugar cookies, but Tim is reserving judgment as to if they’re actually edible. Stephanie’s never are. Never  _ were _ .

Alfred gives up waiting for Jason to talk on his own and prompts him again, trying a softer approach.

“My dear boy, why shouldn’t I come? What do you think is going to happen?”

Jason shrugs, half-heartedly.

“I don’t know. I just- I’m not ready. The theater, it’s mine. And I’m not ready to share it just yet.”

Tim furrows his eyebrows.

“But you invited me to tonight’s show; you gave me the tickets. I wouldn’t have come if you hadn’t invited me.”

Jason huffs and turns to face them both, folding his arms tightly against his chest.

“You don’t count. I don’t  _ care _ what  _ you _ think.”

Alfred raises an eyebrow.

“But you value my opinion? Master Jason, I could never be anything but proud of you.”

Jason’s cheeks darken.

“That’s not true,” he says hotly. He’s ready to say more, but Alfred cuts in.

“It is. I have  _ always _ been proud of you, Jason.”

“Don’t  _ lie _ to me.”

“Jason Peter Todd,” Alfred says sharply. “I have never lied to you in my life and I will not be starting now!”

“I’ve  _ killed people, _ Alfred.” Jason sneers.

“So have I,” Alfred replies, unflinching.

Jason falters and Alfred takes the opening.

“You’ve made mistakes, it’s true, but you have always done your best. That’s all I’ve ever asked of you. If you are under the impression that I hold the things you did while you were,” Alfred’s mouth twists. “Under the influence, shall we say, against you, then let me reassure you. I do not.”

“None of us do.” Tim adds. “We don’t blame you; everyone knows you’ve been trying to do better. Bruce too, even though he has trouble showing it. You’re the only one still holding on to the past.”

“But I’m not sorry for what I did.” Jason says hoarsely. 

“I know.” Alfred says, gently. “But we’ve forgiven you all the same.”

Jason leans against the counter and stares at the floor. His face is drained of color, his lips pressed together.

“I thought- no one ever comes around, ‘cept for business.”

“We were  _ trying _ to give you some space. We thought you’d call when you were ready.” Tim smiles thinly. “I can see now that we were wrong.”

Alfred shakes his head fondly.

“I forgot how obtuse you could be. You really must try to think with your head and not your heart once in a while. Else you’ll keep missing the forest for the trees.”

“I think plenty. And I ain’t  _ obtuse _ .” Jason protests.

“Jason.” Tim interrupts with a grin.

“ _ What? _ ”

“Your cookies are burning.”

* * *

Tim follows Alfred into the reception area, humming a few bars of the finale to himself. He has to admit, he enjoyed the performance more than he expected. What the performers lacked in musical ability, they’d more than made up for with enthusiasm.

The room is packed with other friends and family members milling around, waiting for their loved ones to emerge from backstage. They join the crowd, staking out a small table near the bar where Avraham dishes out punch and a tall wisp of a man wearing a yarmulke hands out cookies. They don’t have to wait long before Jason appears, still wearing his blacks and grinning ear to ear.

“So? What did you think?”

“It was simply marvelous,Todd. Well  _ done _ .” Alfred crows.

“Alfred cried, so I’m pretty sure you nailed it.” Tim chimes in, dodging Alfred’s half-hearted swipe.

Jason‘s grin widens even more. He’s probably in danger of splitting his face in half at this point.

“Yeah? I’ll have to tell the troupe. They’ll be stoked they made a  _ Brit _ cry.”

“Oh dear,” Alfred says dryly. “Is that the new standard?”

“No, but they’ll think it’s hilarious.”

Alfred hums, unamused, but doesn’t comment further.

“Bruce says hi, by the way.” Tim cuts in. “He wants you to come by the Manor this week to help out with some work around the house.”

Jason snorts.

“Yeah, well, he can get in line. Babs has got me redoing her kitchen right now. Did you know she’s been using a TV tray to do prep work ‘cause the fracking counters are too high? ‘S frickin  _ disgraceful _ .”

Alfred tuts.

“Then I’m glad the situation will soon be remedied. I’ll let your father know you’ll be busy. You’re still coming to supper next Sunday?”

“That depends. Last time we had dinner together, we had to talk about Bruce’s deepest, darkest secrets. And I have no more space for family secrets, Alfie.” He shakes his head at Tim. “I have no idea how you do it, Timbo.”

Tim grins.

“What can I say? I contain multitudes.”

“Clearly.”

Alfred sighs.

“The only family secret left, to my knowledge, is the name of Master Dick’s current partner. And I’m sure by the time we solve that particular mystery, he’ll have found a new one.”

Jason snorts.

“Dickiebird’s still on the rebound, huh?”

“Let’s just say that we’ll all be glad when he makes up with Babs.” Tim deadpans.

“Todd, there you are. Aren’t you going to introduce us to your guests?”

Avraham glides over, beaming, the tall man trailing just behind him. Jason returns his smile and gestures at his table mates.

“This is Tim and Alfred. Tim, Alfred this is Avraham and his husband, Simon.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.” Alfred says.

“Ah, handsome  _ and _ from across the pond. My dear Simon, you finally have some competition!”

Jason sputters as Simon leans forward, making a show of eyeing Alfred up and down.

“I think I can take him.” He says, hints of a Slavic accent hanging on his words. He smiles, cheekily. “What do you think, Mr. Alfred. Can I take you?”

“Only if you buy me dinner first, sir.” Alfred responds tartly.

Avraham laughs uproariously.

“Oh, I like him! Where have you been hiding this one,Todd?”

Jason looks like he’s dying a little inside.

“Avraham,  _ please _ ,” he chokes. “That’s my  _ grandpa _ .”

Tim bursts into laughter and it isn’t long before everyone else joins in.

It feels a lot like home.


End file.
